PAUL 
LINTIER 


J  - 

*  ^J 


MY    '75 


MY  75 

REMINISCENCES  OF  A  GUNNER 
OF  A   '75m/m  BATTERY  IN  1914 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 

PAUL  LINTIER 


WITH  A  PREFACE  BY 

FRANCES  WILSON  HUARD 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLI  SHE  RS 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


PREFACE 

BY  FRANCES  WILSON  HUARD 
Author  of  "My  Home  in  the  Field  of  Honour" 

ALL  during  the  three  weary  years  of  this 
great  war  real  pleasures  have  been  few 
for  those  of  us  whom  Fate  has  destined  to  be 
more  or  less  closely  associated  with  the  daily 
tide  of  events. 

As  I  look  back  at  present  I  feel  that  one  of 
my  first  treats  was  when  I  came  upon  Paul 
Lintier's  newly  published  volume  called  "Ma 
Piece."  I  read  it,  reread  it  and  recommended 
it  to  those  of  my  American  friends  who,  able 
to  read  French,  clamoured  for  some  real  hu- 
man document;  the  war  as  seen  by  an  actual 
participant. 

Aside  from  the  clear,  concise  style,  devoid 
of  any  pretentious  literary  flourishes,  the  inci- 
dents were  what  gripped  me.  They  were  the 
direct  answer  to  those  thousand  and  one 
questions  that  we,  the  civilians  shut  up  in  the 
army  zone,  tortured  by  fear  and  anguish,  asked 


vi  PREFACE 

ourselves  and  asked  each  other  a  hundred  times 

a  day. 

Soldiers  and  diplomats,  critics  and  littera- 
teurs, wives  and  sweethearts  all  over  the  fair 
land  of  France  devoured  and  discussed  the 
book.  And  little  did  I  dream  that  it  would 
one  day  be  my  privilege  to  write  a  preface 
introducing  to  my  compatriots  this  chef 
tfoeuvre  already  recognised  by  the  French 
Academy,  the  winner  of  the  Prix  Montyon. 
This  I  may  truly  say  is  the  greatest  pleasure 
yet  fallen  to  my  lot.  Pleasure,  alas  I  not  un- 
mixed with  pain,  for  were  it  not  a  nobler  task 
to  extol  the  virtues  of  the  living  than  sing  the 
praises  of  those  gone  before? 

It  was  not  my  fortune  to  have  known  Paul 
Lintier.  He  fell  in  the  very  flower  of  his  man- 
hood, unmindful  of  the  sacrifice  for  country, 
ignoring  his  glorious  contribution  for  the  safety 
of  future  generations.  But  with  his  pass- 
ing on  the  Field  of  Honour,  something  besides 
a  son,  a  soldier,  and  a  poet  was  lost  to  France 
— lost  to  us  all.  It  is  such  spirits  as  his  that 
make  a  country  great,  make  the  world  worth 
while.  It  is  for  such  reasons  that  we  should 
treasure  all  the  more  carefully  his  only  contri- 
butions to  posterity. 

His  name,  yesterday  unknown,  now  justly 
stands  graven  on  the  records  of  all  time.  This 


PREFACE  vit 

humble  artilleryman  lost  in  the  masses  of  the 
combatants,  jotted  down  on  his  knees  a  work 
that  shall  stand  as  one  of  the  most  immutable 
witnesses  of  the  conflict;  a  book  that  long 
after  we  have  gone  will  remain;  an  incom- 
parable document,  a  magnificent  offering  to 
those  who  later  on  shall  study  the  souls  and 
gestures  of  a  generation  of  heroes  by  whom 
France  was  saved. 

Some  one  has  said,  and  wisely,  that  what 
most  pleases  us  when  perusing  a  book  is  to  find 
the  author  corroborating  our  own  thoughts, — 
giving  voice  to  our*  unborn  sentiments — pro- 
viding us  with  material  for  comparison.  If 
this  be  true,  then  there  is  no  reason  why  "My 
.75"  should  not  live  on  forever. 

Further  than  a  really  great  literary  talent, 
this  book  reveals  the  profound  and  generous 
soul  of  the  entire  "Jeunesse  Franchise"  ready 
to  sacrifice  itself  without  counting,  for  the 
highest  ideal  that  ever  inflamed  a  people. 

The  admirable  patience,  the  great  good  hu- 
mour, the  intelligent  cleverness  and  heroic  de- 
votion together  with  the  plain,  simple  courage, 
all  the  deep-rooted,  undreamed  of  qualities  of 
the  French  Race,  are  to  be  found  within  its. 
covers,  making  it  a  monument  to  stoic  virtue. 

How  we  love  them,  all  the  "Camarades" — 
Hutin,  Depres,  Brejard,  Lieutenant  Hely 


viii  PREFACE 

d'Oissel — and    the    others — the    four    million 

others  who  on  August  second,  nineteen  hundred 

and  fourteen,  stood  willing,  ready,  to  perish 

for  their  ideal,  glad  to  offer  their  lives  with  a 

smile. 

The  dedication  to  "Captain  Bernard  de  Bris- 
soult,  whose  glorious  death  facing  the  enemy, 
drew  from  eyes  burned  by  powder  and  long 
vigils,  the  terrible  tears  of  soldiers,"  is  one  of 
the  most  touching  things  I  know,  and  I  should 
like  to  feel  that  all  those  of  my  compatriots 
who  close  the  book  have  shed  a  tear  of  admira- 
tion and  regret  for  Paul  Lintier,  who  died  for 
France,  March  sixteenth,  nineteen  sixteen,  in 
the  twenty-third  year  of  his  age. 

New  York, 

July,  Nineteen  hundred  and  seventeen.. 


MY  '75 

I.  MOBILISATION 

WAR!  Every  one  knows  it,  every  one 
says  so.  It  would  be  madness  not  to 
believe  it.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  we 
hardly  feel  excited;  we  don't  believe  it! 
War,  the  Great  European  War — no,  it  can't  be 
true! 

But  why  shouldn't  it  be  true? 

Blood,  money,  and  more  and  more  blood! 
And  then  we  have  so  often  heard  people  say: 
"Now  there'll  be  war,"  and  nevertheless  we 
remained  at  peace.  And  it  will  be  so  this 
time.  Europe  is  not  going  to  become  a 
slaughter-house  because  an  Austrian  Archduke 
happens  to  have  been  murdered. 

And  yet,  what  are  we  hourly  expecting  as 
we  sit  here  in  nervous  idleness  in  the  barracks, 
unless  it  is  the  order  for  general  mobilisation? 
Sergeants  of  all  ages  arrived  yesterday  at  Le 
Mans,  and  every  train  to-day  has  brought 
others.  There  is  nothing  for  them  to  do.  Since 
reveille  a  man  dressed  in  coarse  corduroy  has 
stood  at  the  window  watching  the  artillerymen 
and  horses  coming  and  going  in  the  square. 

9 


io  MY  -75 

Every  now  and  then  he  takes  a  brandy-flask 

from  his  pocket  and  has  a  pull  at  it. 

I  was  lying  on  my  bed.  Hutin,  the  chief 
layer  of  the  first  gun,  was  spread-eagled  on 
his,  smoking,  his  knees  in  the  air  and  his  heels 
drawn  up  under  him.  Noticing  that  my  pack 
was  crooked,  I  got  up,  mechanically,  and  put 
it  straight. 

"Hutin!" 

"Yes?" 

"Come  and  have  a  drink  I" 

"All  right!" 

The  barrack  square  was  less  noisy  than 
usual.  There  were  no  drivers  just  returned 
from  the  polygon  unharnessing  their  teams  in 
front  of  the  stables.  No  word  of  command 
was  heard  from  officers  directing  firing  practice 
underneath  the  plane-tree's.  In  a  corner  one 
of  the  guards  of  the  artillery  park  was  oiling 
his  guns.  A  cavalryman,  both  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  the  reins  slung  over  one  arm,  was 
leading  his  horse  to  the  trough  or  the  forge. 
Over  by  the  wall  of  the  remount  stables,  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  sun,  a  few  orderlies  were 
grooming  their  horses  in  a  listless  fashion.  A 
continuous  stream  of  men  on  their  way  to 
and  from  the  canteen — like  a  black  line  of 
insects  crossing  a  white  gravel  path — marked 
out  one  of  the  diagonals  of  the  square.  In 


MOBILISATION  1 1 

front  of  the  canteen  there  was  a  scramble  for 
drinks.     It  was  hot. 

Midday,  and  we  are  still  waiting  for  news. 
Suppose  all  this  should  only  turn  out  to  be 
another  false  alarm! 

White-clad  gunners,  with  nothing  to  do  as 
there  is  no  firing  practice,  are  strolling  about 
the  courtyard  in  search  of  news.  In  the  Place 
de  la  Mission  inquisitive  onlookers  press  close 
up  to  the  railings;  it  is  difficult  to  say  why. 
The  majority  of  them  are  women.  A  few  gun- 
ners pass  in  front  of  them  with  a  smile  and  a 
swagger,  already  assuming  the  air  of  brave 
defenders. 

Near  the  guard-house  which  serves  as  a 
visitors'  room,  but  where  no  visitors  are 
allowed  to  enter  on  account  of  the  fleas  which 
infest  it  at  this  time  of  year,  wives,  mothers, 
sisters,  and  friends  have  come  to  see  their 
soldiers.  All  make  a  brave  attempt  to  hide 
their  feelingsi.  But  their  expression  betrays 
their  anxiety,  which  has  lined  their  foreheads 
and  sharpened  their  features.  There  are  dark 
rings  around  their  eyes,  and  the  eyes  themselves 
are  restless  and  sunken.  They  continually 
avert  their  gaze,  lest  the  fears  and  forebodings 
which  no  one  can  banish  should  be  read  in 
their  faces.  When  they  go  away,  through 


12  MY  -75 

the  little  door  under  the  chestnut-trees,  after 
having  watched  the  soldiers  disappear  down 
the  passage  at  the  end  of  the  barracks,  their 
feelings  suddenly  find  vent  in  a  sob,  at  which 
they  are  themselves  surprised.  Rapidly,  and 
almost  shamefacedly,  pressing  a  rolled-up 
handkerchief  to  their  lips,  they  turn  aside  into 
the  Rue  Chanzy,  as  if  all  the  men  there  did 
not  understand  their  trouble.  .  .  . 

At  four  o'clock  I  went  out  with  Sergeant 
Le  Mee  by  special  permission  of  the  Captain. 
We  went  to  my  room  in  the  Rue  Mangeard 
to  leave  Le  Mee's  parade  uniform  there,  to- 
gether with  a  bag  and  some  papers. 

We  were  about  to  have  dinner  together.  I 
had  just  uncorked  a  bottle  of  old  claret,  when 
Le  Mee  caught  hold  of  my  arm. 

"Listen !" 

Up  from  the  street  a  loud  murmur  rose 
through  the  open  window.  At  the  same 
moment  something  magnetic,  indefinable  and 
yet  definite,  shot  through  both  of  us.  We 
looked  at  each  other,  I  with  the  bottle  held 
to  the  brim  of  the  glass. 

"At  last!" 

Le  Mee  nodded  assent,  and  we  hurried  to 
the  window.  In  the  street  below,  near  the 
artillery  barracks,  surged  a  dense  crowd.  All 


MOBILISATION  13 

faces  reflected  the  same  expression  of  stupor, 
anxiety,  and  bewilderment.  In  the  eyes  of  all 
shone  the  same  strange  gleam.  Women's 
voices  were  heard — voices  that  quavered  and 
broke.  .  .  . 

"Well,  Le  Mee,  here's  to  your  health  and 
let's  hope  that  in  a  few  months  we  shall  have 
another  drink  together!" 

"Here's  luck  to  us  both !" 

Grasping  our  swords  we  ran  back  to  the 
barracks.  That  night  we  once  again  slept  in 
our  beds. 

Sunday,  August  t 

My  kit  was  ready.     I  had  rolled  up  some 
handkerchiefs  in  my  cloak. 
A  sergeant  came  in: 

"Now  then,  all  of  you  go  to  the  office!" 
The  sergeant  began  distributing  the  record 
books  and  identity  discs. 

On  one  side  of  mine  was  inscribed:  "Paul 
Lintier,"  and,  underneath,  "E.V.  (engage 
volontaire)  Cl.  1913";  on  the  other:  "Ma- 
yenne  1 179." 

You  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  the  of- 
fice, everything  was  so  still.  For  one  moment 
there  rose  up  before  me  a  vision  of  a  battlefield 
— with  dead  men  lying  stretched  out  on  the 
edge  of  a  pit,  and  a  non-commissioned  officer 


H  MY  -75 

hastily   identifying   them   before   burial.     My 

emotion  was  short  lived. 

The  "Great  Event"  had  at  last  come  to 
break  the  monotony  of  our  barrack  life,  and 
no  one  thought  of  anything  else.  It  was 
almost  as  if  a  sort  of  blindness  prevented  us 
from  looking  ahead  and  confined  each  man's 
attention  to  the  preparations  for  departure. 
This  indifference  astonished  me,  and  yet  I  my- 
self shared  it. 

Was  it  decision,  courage?  To  a  certain 
extent,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Did  we  really  believe 
there  was  going  to  be  war?  I  am  not  too 
sure  of  it.  It  was  impossible  to  realise  what 
war  would  be — to  gauge  the  whole  horror  of  it. 
And  so  we  were  not  afraid. 

From  one  of  the  barrack  windows  I  saw  the 
following  scene: 

A  young  man,  promptly  called  up  by  the 
general  mobilisation,  had  just  come  out  of  a 
house  opposite.  He  was  walking  backwards, 
shading  his  eyes  from  the  sun  in  order  to  see 
the  face  of  some  one  dear  to  him  who  stood 
at  one  of  the  second-floor  windows.  A  fair- 
haired  woman,  very  young  and  extremely  pale, 
watched  him  with  longing  eyes  from  behind 
the  muslin  curtains,  doubtless  afraid  to  let 
him  see  her  distraught  face  and  tear-stained 
cheeks.  She  was  standing  close  behind  the 


MOBILISATION  15 

curtains,  her  hand  on  her  breast,  with  the 
fingers  spasmodically  stretched  out  in  an 
attitude  eloquent  of  grief.  As  he  was  about  to 
disappear  from  view  in  a  bend  of  the  road, 
she  suddenly  opened  the  window  wide,  and 
showed  herself  for  an  instant.  The  man  could 
not  see  her.  She  took  two  unsteady  steps 
backwards,  and  sank  into  an  arm-chair,  where 
she  sat  huddled  up,  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
her  shoulders  shaken  with  sobs.  Then,  in  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  room,  I  caught  sight  of  a 
servant  with  a  Breton  cap  carrying  a  baby  to 
her. 

At  noon  we  left  the  barracks  in  order  to 
take  up  the  quarters  which  had  been  assigned 
to  us  a  little  way  down  the  Avenue  de 
Pontlieue. 

The  roth  and  i2th  Batteries  of  the  44th 
Regiment  of  Field  Artillery  were  to  assemble 
upon  a  war  footing  in  the  cider-brewery  known 
as  Toublanc. 

We  had  nothing  to  do  except  shake  down 
our  straw  bedding.  A  gas-engine  was  throb- 
bing with  an  incessant  double  beat  which  got  on 
one's  nerves  after  a  while.  On  the  doors  of  the 
available  buildings  were  crudely  chalked  the 
numbers  of  the  regiments  to  which  they  were 
allotted. 


16  MY  -75 

The  stables  were  installed  in  a  shed  open 
on  one  side,  at  one  end  of  which  were  piles  of 
casks  on  which  we  placed  the  harness.  These 
stables  would  have  been  quite  comfortable  if 
they  had  not  smelt  so  horribly  owing  to  the 
dirty  lavatories  adjoining  them. 

The  men's  quarters  had  been  arranged 
in  a  kitchen  garden  full  of  black  currant- 
bushes  and  peach-trees,  and  consisted  of 
an  old,  tumble-down  outhouse,  which  seemed 
to  have  escaped  complete  destruction  solely 
owing  to  the  vines  and  Virginia  creepers 
growing  over  it,  and  whose  clinging  embrace 
of  closely  woven  branches  and  tendrils  held 
its  crumbling  walls  together.  The  grapes 
were  already  quite  large.  The  coming  harvest 
looked  most  promising.  I  wondered  where  we 
should  be  when  the  time  came  for  them  to  be 
gathered. 

No  one  troubled  to  ascertain  whether  war 
had  been  declared.  After  all,  the  declaration 
only  meant  a  few  words  already  spoken,  or 
about  to  be  spoken,  by  diplomatists.  The 
war  was  already  a  reality.  We  felt  it.  The 
only  question  which  occupied  our  minds  was 
when  we  were  to  start,  and  this  nobody  could 
answer. 

The  men  were  cheerful,  unconcerned,  and 


MOBILISATION  17 

much  less  nervous  than  yesterday.  Per- 
sonally, I  did  not  feel  weighed  down  under  the 
intolerable  burden  of  anxiety  which  I  had 
expected  to  crush  me  at  such  a  time.  I 
wanted  to  ask  all  my  comrades  whether 
they  really  believed  that  in  a  few  days  we 
should  be  under  fire.  And  if  they  had 
answered  "Yes,"  I  should  have  admired  them, 
for,  if  I  remained  cool  and  collected  before  the 
yawning  chasm  opening  out  before  us,  it  was 
merely  because  I  had  not  yet  realised  its 
depths. 

I  kept  repeating  to  myself:  "It  is  war — 
ghastly,  bloody  war  .  .  .  and  perhaps  you 
will  soon  be  dead."  But  nevertheless  I  did 
not  feel  the  least  emotion;  I  did  not  believe 
that  I  should  be  killed.  It  is  true  that,  in  the 
presence  of  a  dead  person  one  has  loved,  one 
does  not  at  first  believe  that  he  is  dead. 

I  have  written  these  notes  sitting  on  a 
packing-case,  using  the  bottom  of  an  up- 
turned barrel  as  a  table.  A  stable-guard,  after; 
eyeing  me  a  moment  or  two,  came  and  looked 
over  my  shoulder. 

"Lord!"  said  he,  "you've  got  it  badly  I" 

Monday,  August  3 

We  don't  yet  know  whether  war  has  been 
declared,  but  Metz  is  reported  to  be  in  flames 


1 8  MY  -75 

and  some  say  Metz  has  been  taken.  French 
aeroplanes  and  dirigibles  are  said  to  have 
blown  up  the  powder  magazines.  There  is 
also  a  rumour  that  Garros  has  destroyed  a 
Zeppelin  manned  by  twenty  officers,  and  that 
on  the  frontier  our  airmen  have  been  tossing 
up  as  to  who  shall  first  try  to  ram  an  enemy 
airship.  The  Germans  are  said  to  have 
crossed  our  frontier  yesterday  in  three  places. 
But  yesterday  we  heard  that  our  soldiers,  in 
spite  of  their  officers,  had  broken  through 
on  to  German  soil.  The  rumours  going 
about  are  numberless,  and  the  most  likely 
and  unlikely  things  are  said  in  the  same 
breath. 

What  are  we  to  believe?  Nothing,  of  course. 
That  would  be  best. 

But  we  thirst  for  news,  and  yet,  when  any 
is  brought  in,  we  shrug  our  shoulders  incredu- 
lously. Nevertheless,  when  a  success  is  re- 
ported we  are  so  anxious  to  believe  it  that  the 
majority  of  sceptics  only  require  a  sufficiently 
vigorous  affirmation  in  order  to  accept  it  as 
true. 

I  intend  to  note  down  every  day  both  fables 
and  facts.  But  at  present  I  am  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  distinguish  between  what  is  true  and 
what  is  false. 

I  am  only  endeavouring,  in  these  hurriedly 


MOBILISATION  19 

scribbled  pages,  to  give  some  idea  of  the 
different  elements  which  go  to  form  the  state 
of  mind  of  an  individual  soldier  lost  among 
a  crowd  of  others.  In  this  sense  fact  and 
fable  are  the  same  thing;  but  later  on,  if  this 
notebook  is  not  buried  with  me  in  some 
nameless  grave  out  yonder,  these  notes  may 
perhaps  serve  to  form  a  history  of  legend.  A 
history  of  legend — that  is  as  much  as  I  dare 
hope  to  achieve ! 

I  have  an  hour  or  two  free  for  writing,  and 
am  using  a  bench  as  a  desk.  Behind  me  the 
horses  keep  stamping  intermittently  on  the 
cement  floor  of  the  shed.  It  would  not  be  so 
bad  if  these  lavatories  did  not  srnell  so 
abominably. 

We  have  been  informed  that  we  are  to  start 
on  Friday.  To  Berlin!  To  Berlin! 

Berlin!  That's  the  objective.  It  was  in, 
everybody's  mouth!  But  did  we  not  mark 
time  to  the  same  refrain  in  1870,  almost  at 
this  same  season?  And  what  happened  after- 
wards? The  recollection  made  me  shiver. 
Superstition ! 

Is  England  going  to  come  into  line  with  us 
against  Germany?  England  is  the  great 
unknown  quantity  at  the  present  moment.. 
Nevertheless,  she  is  hardly  mentioned  here. 


20  MY  -75 

To  Berlin!    To  Berlin! 
The  cry  echoes  on  all  sides. 

Although  I  had  begun  to  convince  myself 
of  the  reality  of  events,  the  excitement  of  de- 
parture and  the  irritation  caused  by  knowing 
nothing  definite  had  set  my  nerves  jangling 
and  prevented  me  from  realising  to  the  full 
the  approaching  horror. 

We  had  harnessed  our  horses  and  formed  the 
gun-teams. 

A  gun  in  a  75  mm.  battery  is  composed 
of  the  gun  itself  and  ammunition  wagon, 
each  with  its  limber,  and  each  drawn  by  six 
horses  harnessed  in  pairs.  The  detachment 
consists  of  six  drivers,  six  gunners,  a  corporal, 
and  a  sergeant,  who  is  the  gun-commander. 
But  my  gun,  the  first  of  the  2nd  battery,  is 
also  accompanied  by  the  section-commander, 
the  battery-leader,  a  trumpeter,  and  the 
Captain's  orderly  with  his  two  horses.  In  all, 
eighteen  men  and  nineteen  horses.  Of  the 
eighteen  men,  seventeen  belonged  to  the  active 
service.  For  nearly  a  year  now  they  have  led 
the  same  life;  each  day  they  have  executed  the 
same  manoeuvres  together.  One  detachment, 
therefore,  is  a  real  entity,  and  forms  a  little 
society  by  itself,  with  its  habits,  likes  and  dis- 
likes. 


MOBILISATION  21 

Brejard,  the  section-commander,  really  com- 
mands it  himself,  as  he  did  before  the  general 
mobilisation.  So  nothing  seems  changed. 
Hubert,  the  new  gun-commander,  a  reservist, 
has  his  thoughts  centred  on  his  young  wife, 
whom,  after  only  a  few  months  of  married 
life,  he  has  had  to  leave  at  his  farm,  where 
the  corn  is  still  standing. 

Brejard,  who  must  be  about  twenty-four,  i* 
tall  and  spare,  with  unfathomable  grey  eyes, 
an  obstinate  chin,  and  rather  strong  features. 
He  enlisted  when  very  young,  and,  by  dint  of 
hard  and  methodical  work,  passed  into  Fon- 
tainebleau  high  up  in  the  list. 

Corporal  Jean  Deprez  affords  a  contrast  to 
Brejard.  Dreamy  and  imaginative,  bored  by 
regimental  life,  and  far  from  reconciled  to  the 
prospect  of  many  months  of  war,  Deprez,  as 
far  as  the  Service  is  concerned,  is  a  weakling 
to  whom  any  exercise  of  his  authority,  small 
though  it  is,  goes  against  the  grain.  He  has 
momentary  flashes  of  wit,  and,  although  as 
a  rule  very  unenthusiastic  and  rather  moody, 
he  is  nevertheless  an  amusing  conversationalist 
at  times,  and  is  a  staunch  friend.  The  lack 
of  work  in  the  barracks  has  for  some  part 
thrown  us  together,  and  both  were  pleased  to 
find  ourselves  side  by  side  when  the  moment 
came  to  take  the  field. 


22  MY  -75 

With  Corporal  Deprez  on  one  hand,  and 
Gun-layer  Hutin  on  the  other,  I  had  not  the 
least  feeling  of  loneliness  in  the  tremendous 
excitement  of  mobilisation,  and  the  hourly  ex- 
pectation of  the  breaking  of  the  storm. 

Hutin  is  a  little  fellow  with  a  thick  crop  of 
black  hair  and  a  moustache.  His  regular 
features  are  lit  up  by  a  pair  of  attractive  dark 
brown  eyes  of  rather  roguish  expression. 
Energetic,  quick-tempered,  fairly  ambitious, 
intolerant,  quick  to  make  up  his  mind,  and  ex- 
tremely intelligent,  capable  of  real  friendship 
and  even  devotedness,  I  have  grown  fond  of  his 
rich  and  spontaneous  temperament. 

In  the  Avenue  de  Pontlieue  the  comman- 
deered horses  were  standing  in  line.  There 
were  hundreds  of  them,  heavy,  pot-bellied, 
docile  animals,  with  splendid  manes  and 
shaggy  fetlocks.  They  were  held  by  men  in 
smocks,  standing  motionless  on  the  curb,  chafing 
at  the  delay  and  longing  for  their  dinner.  Near- 
by, along  the  wall  of  the  artillery  barracks, 
was  collected  a  heterogeneous  medley  of  carts 
and  lorries,  also  requisitioned. 

A  motley  crowd  was  thronging  the  avenue — 
women  in  light-coloured  summer  dresses  and 
soldiers  in  uniform  and  canvas  clothing  pre- 
senting an  incongruous  appearance.  Reservists 


MOBILISATION  23 

were  arriving  in  groups.  Almost  all  looked  quiet 
and  undisturbed,  and  some  even  wore  a  cheer- 
ful air.  One  or  two  were  obviously  drunk, 
and  others  looked  as  though  they  might  be.  I 
only  saw  one  who  was  crying.  He  was  sitting 
on  a  heap  of  straw,  engaged  in  fixing  a  brand- 
new  yellow  strap  to  his  revolver-holster,  and 
tears  were  falling  on  his  clumsy  fingers  as  he 
fumbled  with  the  stiff  leather.  I  put  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  whereupon  he  half  turned 
round  and  said,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head: 

"Oh,  my  God  I  My  wife  died  in  child- 
bed last  week.  .  .  .  There's  the  baby-girl — only 
eight  days  old — left  all  alone  with  nobody  to 
look  after  her!" 

"What  have  you  done  with  her?" 
"Well,  the  only  thing  I  could  .  .   .  took  her 
to  the  Foundlings'  Home." 

It  is  when  the  post  comes  in  that  the  men 
look  saddest. 

We  are  confined  to  quarters,  but  the  non- 
commissioned officers  are  allowed  to  take  the 
men,  two  or  three  at  a  time,  to  the  abrewuoir 
as  the  cafe  opposite  is  called. 

Tuesday,  August  4 
Yesterday  evening  at  nine  o'clock,  by  way 


24  MY  -75 

of  a  purely  theoretical  roll-call,  the  Lieutenant 

opened  the  door  of  our  den. 

"Every  one  all  right  in  there?" 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you!     Warm  as  pies!" 

"Nothing  you  want?" 

"Yes,  sir,  we'd  like  to  start!" 

"Oh!  to  start,  would  you?" 

This  morning  Pelletier,  the  trumpeter,  a 
Parisian  who  seems  able  to  turn  his  hands 
to  almost  anything,  began  sharpening  our 
swords.  Standing  in  front  of  a  bench  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  he  worked  an  enormous  file  with 
a  horrible  screeching  noise  which  sent  cold 
shudders  down  one's  spine  and  set  one's  teeth 
on  edge.  From  time  to  time  he  paused  in  his 
work  and,  with  furious  thrusts  and  slashes, 
tried  the  points  and  edges  by  cutting  up  some 
old  deal  cases  lying  in  a  corner. 

From  the  depths  of  our  quarters,  where 
we  live  in  an  atmosphere  alive  with  the  most 
ridiculous  rumours,  waiting  for  orders  to 
entrain,  the  tumult  of  the  general  mobilisation 
in  the  streets  and  on  the  neighbouring  Paris- 
Brest  railway  line  sounds  like  incessantly  rever- 
berating thunder  in  an  atmosphere  charged  with 
electricity. 

One  of  my  fellow-countrymen,  Gaget,  who 
is  clerk  to  the  Artillery  Staff,  told  me  that 
war  has  not  yet  been  declared.  He  is  in 


MOBILISATION  25 

a  position  to  know.  His  mother  has  written 
to  him  from  Mayenne  saying  that  my  family 
believe  me  to  be  already  at  Verdun.  I  wonder 
if  my  letters  are  not  being  delivered.  .  .  . 

This  afternoon  Deprez  went  to  the  laundry 
to  get  his  washing.  In  the  shop  a  young 
woman,  the  wife  of  a  corporal  of  artillery  who 
joined  the  colours  this  morning,  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  began  to  cry. 

He  came  back  much  upset. 

Some  of  the  men  have  gone  with  their 
horses  to  bring  back  our  war  material  from  the 
station.  The  park  is  arranged  on  the  wide 
footpath  of  the  Avenue  de  Pontlieue,  where 
the  plane-trees  shelter  our  75  mm.  guns  and 
ammunition  wagons.  Women  stop  to  look 
at  them,  and  some  shake  their  heads  de- 
spondently. 

It  appears  that  we  are  to  entrain  to-morrow 
evening.  We  are  beginning  to  get  thoroughly 
bored  here,  and  do  not  know  how  to  fill  in  our 
time.  I  am  going  to  get  some  sleep  in  our  den 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  kitchen  garden, 
where  it  is  cool  and  shady.  The  sun,  through 
the  open  door,  only  lights  up  a  large  rectangle 
of  straw,  covered  with  haversacks  and  gleaming 
weapons.  The  weather  has  been  splendid 
to-day,  fine  and  clear,  and,  now  that  twilight  is 


26  MY  .75 

near,  the  air  is  beginning  to  hum  with  those 
midges  which  fly  round  and  round  in  circles 
and  are  supposed  to  herald  fine  weather. 

I  was  able  to  get  out  for  a  moment.  Some 
women,  their  eyes  swollen  with  crying,  looked 
at  us  with  pity,  and  spoke  to  us — the  first  young 
men  to  go — in  voices  full  of  sympathy: 

"When  do  you  start?" 

"To-morrow — perhaps  the  day  after." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"We're  not  sure — either  Verdun  or  Mau- 
beuge." 

"Well,  the  best  of  luck." 

"Thanks  so  much.   .   .   .  Good-bye  I" 

Good  luck!  ...  I  hope  so!  ...  It  is  a 
sort  of  lasting  farewell  they  bid  us,  out  of  the 
fullness  of  their  hearts,  before  we  start  for  the 
Great  Unknown. 

Wednesday,  August  5 

War  has  been  declared  since  the  3rd,  and 
fighting  is  in  progress  all  along  the  frontier. 

Serious  losses  have  already  been  reported. 
Eleven  thousand  French  and  eighteen  thousand 
Germans  are  said  to  have  fallen  in  the  opening 
engagements.  Whether  these  figures  mean 
killed  or  injured  I  do  not  know. 

The  news,  true  or  false,  damped  our  spirits 
for  a  few  moments.  But  our  extraordinary 


MOBILISATION  27 

indifference  soon  gained  the  upper  hanu. 
Besides,  has  there  ever  been  a  more  favourable 
occasion  for  revenge — for  our  Revanche — 
than  this? 

Thursday,  August  6 

The  Germans  have  entered  Belgium,  in  spite 
of  the  convention  of  neutrality.  I  don't  think 
this  will  surprise  anybody.  But  what  does 
astonish  us,  and  what  must  also  astonish  the 
enemy,  is  the  fierce  resistance  the  Belgians  are 
making. 

The  Germans  have  just  failed  in  a  massed 
attack  on  Liege.  If  the  Belgian  Army  alone 
has  managed  to  worst  them,  what  hopes  dare 
we  not  entertain  ? 

England  is  joining  us.  That  is  now  certain. 
With  the  French,  English,  Russians,  Belgians, 
and  Serbians  allied,  we  ought  soon  to  see  the 
last  of  this  military  Power  which  is  supposed 
to  be  so  formidable.  The  news,  official  this 
time,  made  us  all  the  more  impatient  to  leave 
Le  Mans  and  the  wearying  quarters  in  which 
we  live. 

On  the  Paris-Brest  railway  trains  full  of 
infantry,  cavalry,  and  equipment  have  been 
passing  incessantly.  Grinding  and  screeching 
they  laboriously  roll  over  the  bridge  which 
spans  the  Avenue  de  Pontlieue,  and  which  is 


28  MY  -75 

heroically  guarded  by  obese  Territorials,  wear- 
ing dirty  canvas  suits,  and  armed  with  Gras 
rifles  with  fixed  bayonets.  A  crowd  of  women 
with  children  in  their  arms  or  clinging  to  their 
skirts  are  waiting  there  beneath  the  noontide 
sun.  They  stand  for  hours  at  a  time,  watching 
the  procession  of  military  trucks  decorated  with 
Evergreen  and  illustrated  with  crude  chalk 
drawings.  Clusters  of  soldiers  are  to  be  seen  on 
the  foot-boards,  and  in  the  brake  and  guards' 
vans.  In  the  avenue  clouds  of  dust  are 
raised  by  commandeered  horses  which,  har- 
nessed to  forage  wagons,  are  being  tried  there, 
and  which,  under  the  unaccustomed  yoke, 
become  refractory,  lash  out,  and  finally  get 
entangled  in  the  traces.  The  women  separate 
hurriedly,  dragging  their  children  with  them, 
in  order  to  avoid  a  prancing  horse  or  the  on- 
coming wheel  of  a  wagon.  But  nevertheless, 
obstinate,  excited,  and  as  if  intoxicated  with 
the  noise,  light,  and  continual  movement,  they 
stay  there  in  spite  of  all  discomfort.  When- 
ever a  train  passes  a  broadside  of  shrill  cries 
rises  from  their  groups,  which  collect,  separate, 
disperse,  and  are  again  encompassed  by  the 
dangers  of  the  avenue. 

In  front  of  the  Toublanc  cider-brewery 
flowers  and  ribbons  in  bunches,  sprays,  and 
cascades  carpet  the  pavement  and  smother 


MOBILISATION  29 

the  gun-carriages,  ammunition  wagons,  and 
limbers.  Women  and  girls  arrive  with  arm- 
fuls  of  hydrangeas,  iris,  and  roses.  Their  faces, 
lit  up  by  the  sun  and  by  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  appear  and  disappear  among  the 
flowers.  As  the  sentinels  are  not  allowed  to 
let  any  one  approach  too  close,  they  throw 
their  bouquets  from  a  distance.  Artillerymen, 
who  have  nearly  finished  loading  up  their 
trucks,  thank  them  by  blowing  kisses  which  put 
them  to  flight. 

I  saw  one  girl  fastening  a  huge  tricolour 
bunch  on  the  bayonet  of  one  of  the  sentinels 
— evidently  her  lover.  The  steel  shone  amid 
the  blossoms. 

Women  timidly  bar  the  way  to  the  horse- 
men in  order  to  decorate  their  bridles  and  sad- 
dle-bags with  garlands.  And  overhead  the 
splendid  August  sun  beats  down,  shedding  a 
golden  light  on  the  dust  of  the  roadway  and 
the  green  of  the  trees,  and  lighting  up  the  faces 
of  the  women  and  the  flowers. 

Friday,  August  7 

For  some  time  now  I  have  observed  the 
first  gesture  of  a  soldier  who  has  just  received 
a  letter.  He  tears  it  open  hurriedly,  and,  with- 
out pulling  it  out  of  the  envelope,  rapidly 


3°  MY  .75 

fingers  it  to  see  whether  it  contains  a  postal 

order.  .  .  . 

I  was  out  to-night  with  Deprez,  when  a 
woman,  powdered  and  painted,  with  podgy 
cheeks  and  a  chest  and  stomach  forming  an 
undivided  mass  of  shaking  fat,  accosted  us : 

"Forty-fourth?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  Corporal  X?  Give  him 
the  best  wishes  from  Alice.  He'll  know.  .  .  . 
Alice  is  my  name.  .  .  .  You  won't  forget?  .  .  . 
Poor  old  Joe!  .  .  ." 

Then,  as  we  prepared  to  go  on  our  way: 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  she  said,  with  the 
usual  glance  of  invitation. 

"No,  thanks,"  answered  Deprez  politely,  "we 
haven't  got  time." 

After  we  had  gone  a  little  farther,  he  added : 

"That's  a  message  which  I'm  shot  if  I'll 
deliver!" 

Saturday,  August  8 

At  last  we  have  received  orders  to  entrain. 
Our  first  taste  of  war  has  been  a  sort  of  flower- 
show.  A  crowd  of  women  and  grey-haired  men 
were  waiting  for  us  under  the  trees  on  the  other 
side  of  the  avenue.  Children,  their  tiny  arms 
full  of  flowers,  ran  up  to  us;  their  mothers 
waved  their  hands  and  smiled.  But  how  sad 


MOBILISATION  31 

the  smiles  of  these  women  were !  Their 
swollen  eyes  told  a  tale  of  tears,  and  the  lines 
lurking  round  their  lips,  despite  their  smiles, 
showed  that  another  breakdown  was  not  far 
off.  The  younger  children — and  quite  tiny 
ones  came  toddling  across  the  street — were 
obviously  finding  the  day's  proceedings  finer 
than  a  circus.  They  laughed  and  clapped  their 
hands  with  delight. 

We  passed  the  fag-end  of  the  morning 
getting  the  limbers  and  wagons  ready  and  fur- 
bishing up  the  harness.  Twelve  o'clock  struck. 
As  the  hour  of  departure  approached  the 
tumult  in  the  avenue  calmed  down,  and  the 
crowd  waiting  in  the  shade  became  gradually 
quiet. 

There  was  almost  complete  silence  when 
the  Captain  gave  the  order,  in  clear  resonant 
tones: 

"Forward!" 

Like  an  echo  there  rose  from  the  crowd 
a  loud  hurrah,  through  which  I  never- 
theless distinctly  heard  two  heartrending  sobs. 

Never  was  there  a  brighter  August  day. 
The  limber-boxes  and  gun-wheels,  the  straps 
and  hooks  of  the  harness — even  the  muzzles 
of  the  guns  themselves — were  festooned  with 
flowers  and  ribbons,  the  bright  hues  of  which 
were  blended  together  in  a  harmony  of  colour 


32  MY  -75 

against  the  iron-grey  background  of  the  guns. 

This  morning  the  Captain,  Bernard  de 
Brisoult,  said  to  us: 

"Take  the  flowers  they  offer  you,  and 
decorate  your  guns  with  them.  They  are  the 
precious  offerings  of  those  who  are  left  behind. 
But  be  calm!  For  by  being  thus  you  will  in- 
spire greater  confidence  in  them  as  they  watch 
you  go!" 

The  streets,  through  which  we  proceeded 
at  a  walking  pace,  were  gay  with  flags  and 
bunting.  Truly  the  departure  of  these  men, 
many  of  whom  would  never  return,  was  admir- 
ably serene.  The  gunners,  sitting  motionless 
on  the  limber-boxes  or  walking  beside  the 
horses,  smiled  and  laughed  merrily  as  the 
women  by  the  wayside  waved  them  farewell. 
We  felt  moved,  of  course,  but  it  was  rather 
the  emotion  of  the  crowd  in  the  street  which 
affected  us  than  any  feeling  born  in  our  inner 
selves. 

The  loading  onto  the  train  was  effected  eas- 
ily and  eypeditiously.  As  it  was  very  hot,  the 
gunners  hoisting  the  material  on  to  the  trucks 
had  discarded  their  vests,  and,  with  red  faces, 
their  shoulders  to  the  gun-wheels,  they  united 
their  efforts  whenever  the  gun-commanders 
gave  the  word  "Together!"  which  was  echoed 


MOBILISATION  33 

down  the  whole  length  of  the  train.  The 
drivers  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  their 
teams  into  the  boxes.  The  old  battery  horses 
were  used  to  the  manoeuvre,  but  the  com- 
mandeered animals  resisted  obstinately.  Girths 
were  slung  round  them,  two  by  two,  and  they 
were  hauled  by  force  on  to  the  foot-bridges. 
Once  in  the  vans  they  had  to  be  turned  round 
and  backed  into  position  so  that  four  could 
stand  on  each  side.  This  operation  was 
accompanied  by  a  deafening  din  of  iron-shod 
hoofs  on  the  wooden  floors  and  partitions. 
The  horses  once  safely  installed  and  secured 
face  to  face  in  their  places  by  picket-lines, 
the  stable-pickets  began  to  arrange  the  har- 
ness and  forage  in  the  space  between  the 
two  lines. 

Just  as  the  train  was  starting  I  felt  a  sort 
of  dizziness.  Something  in  my  chest  seemed 
to  snap,  and  I  was  almost  choked  by  a  sudden 
feeling  of  weakness  and  fear.  Should  I  ever 
come  back?  Yes!  I  felt  sure  of  it!  And  yet, 
I  wonder  why  I  felt  so  sure ! 

CoNNERRE-BElLLE.  I  am  sitting  on  a  bundle 
of  hay  between  my  eight  horses.  At  every 
moment,  in  spite  of  my  whip,  they  bite  at  the 
forage  and  nearly  pull  away  my  seat.  The 


34  MY  -75 

door  of  the  van  is  opened  wide  on  the  sunny 

country. 

Sunday,  August  9 

The  train  rumbled  on  for  fifteen  to  eighteen 
hours.  A  long  journey  like  this  is  best  passed 
as  a  stable-guard.  I  made  myself  comfortable 
on  some  shaken-up  hay,  and,  cushioning  my 
head  in  a  well-padded  saddle,  eventually  fell 
asleep. 

The  horses,  almost  all  of  which  were  suffer- 
ing from  strangles,  slobbered  and  sneezed  over 
me,  and  eventually  woke  me  up.  It  was  already 
light.  A  thick  summer  mist  was  floating  over 
the  fields  at  a  man's  height  from  the  ground. 
The  sun,  breaking  through  it  in  places,  lit  up 
myriads  of  shimmering  grass-blades,  dripping 
with  dew. 

Sitting  at  the  open  doors  of  the  vans,  their 
legs  dangling  over  the  side,  the  gunners  watched 
the  country  flit  past.  The  empty  trains 
passing  us  in  the  opposite  direction  frightened 
the  horses,  who  neighed  and  whinnied.  No 
one — not  even  our  officers — knew  whither  we 
were  bound,  and  the  engine-driver  himself  said 
that  he  didn't  know,  but  that  he  was  to  receive 
orders  on  the  way. 

The  Territorials  guarding  the  line  greeted 
us  as  we  passed  by  holding  out  their  rifles  at 
arm's  length.  We  waved  our  whips  in  answer. 


MOBILISATION  35 

"Morning,  old  chap  1" 
"Good  luck  to  you,  boys!" 

RHEIMS.  First  the  canal,  then  a  glimpse 
of  the  town,  and  then  open  country  again,  with 
fields  of  ripe  corn  yellow  in  the  morning  sun. 
There  were  only  a  few  sheaves  to  be  seen. 
The  crops  were  standing  almost  everywhere, 
motionless  in  the  heat,  casting  golden  lights 
on  the  gently  rolling  hills  and  quiet  beauty  of 
the  countryside.  I  felt  as  though  I  could  not 
see  enough  of  it.  In  a  few  days,  perhaps,  I 
should  no  longer  be  able  to  see  the  splendour 
of  the  sun-kissed  corn  and  the  gorgeous 
mantle  it  throws  over  the  symmetrical  slopes 
of  the  harvest-land  like  a  drapery  of  old  lace 
lightly  shrouding  a  graceful  Greek  form. 

The  train  rolled  slowly  on  towards  Verdun. 
In  each  village,  from  the  gardens  adjoining 
the  railway-line,  girls  and  children  threw  kisses 
to  us.  They  threw  flowers,  too,  and,  whenever 
the  train  stopped,  brought  us  drinks. 

It  was  already  dusk  when,  after  passing  the 
interminable  sidings  and  platforms  of  Verdun, 
with  its  huge  bakeries  installed  under  green 
awnings,  the  train  finally  came  to  a  standstill 
at  Charny.  We  had  been  travelling  for  more 
than  thirty  hours.  Before  we  had  finished 
detraining  it  was  quite  dark. 


II.  APPROACH  MARCHES 

WE  crossed  the  Meuse.  The  sun  had 
gone  down  and  the  river,  winding  its 
way  between  its  reedy  banks  and  marshy  is- 
lands in  the  afterglow  of  the  crimson  western 
sky,  looked  as  though  it  was  running  with 
blood.  To-morrow,  or  perhaps  the  day  after, 
the  appearance  may  have  become  reality.  I 
do  not  know  why  these  blood-red  reflec- 
tions in  the  water  affected  me  so  much 
as  this  last  moment  of  the  evening,  but  so 
it  was. 

Night  fell — a  clear  night,  in  which  I  uneasily 
sought  for  searchlights  among  the  stars. 
By  the  wayside,  in  one  of  the  army  cattle  parks, 
countless  herds  lay  sleeping.  The  country 
would  have  been  absolutely  still  and  silent  had 
it  not  been  for  the  muffled  rumble  of  our  col- 
umn as  we  marched  along.  The  last  reflections 
of  the  daylight  and  the  first  beams  of  the  moon, 
just  rising  in  the  east,  were  welded  together  in 
a  weird,  diffused  light. 

We  were  marching  eastwards,  and,  as 
the  road  skirted  the  dark  mass  of  a  steep 
the  moon  rose  clear  ahead  over  the 
36 


APPROACH  MARCHES  37 

gloomy  pine-trees,  which  stood  out  like 
silhouettes  on  the  horizon.  Soon  the  battery 
entered  a  dark  wood,  where  the  drivers  had 
difficulty  in  finding  the  way.  Nobody  spoke. 
Occasionally  the  moon  peeped  through  the  trees, 
and  showed  up  a  horseman.  It  almost  seemed 
as  if  the  yellow  light  threw  off  a  palpable 
golden  powder  ;  the  brasswork  of  the  equipment 
and  the  tin  mugs  of  the  men  shone  as  though 
they  were  gilded.  One  man  passed,  then  an- 
other, and  the  shadows,  clear  cut  on  the  road, 
seemed  to  form  part  of  the  silhouettes  of  the 
horsemen  and  magnify  them.  Of  the  rest  of 
the  column,  lost  in  the  night  of  the  forest,  noth- 
ing could  be  seen. 

We  had  been  told  that  the  enemy  was  not 
far  off,  somewhere  in  the  plain  stretching 
beyond  the  hills.  At  every  cross-roads  we 
were  afraid  lest  we  should  take  the  wrong 
turning  and  find  ourselves  in  the  German  lines. 
Besides,  this  first  march  of  the  campaign,  at 
night-time,  had  something  uncanny  about 
it  which  scared  us  a  little  in  spite  of  our- 
selves. 

The  column  came  to  a  halt  just  outside  a 
village.  Troops  were  camping  on  both  sides 
of  the  road,  and  lower  down,  in  one  of  the 
fields,  an  artillery  park  had  been  formed. 
Despite  the  hour — nearly  midnight — the  heat 


38  MY  -75 

was    oppressive,    and   the    stars   were    lightly 

veiled  by  a  thin  mist.     The  bivouac  fires  cast 

flickering    shadows    of    soldiers    in    varying 

stages  of  undress,  some  of  them  naked  to  the 

waist. 

A  little  farther  on,  in  a  meadow  where  the 
loth  Battery  was  already  encamped  for  the 
night — men  and  horses  lying  in  the  damp  grass 
— we  parked  our  guns. 

We  had  to  lie  on  the  bare  ground,  and 
between  drivers  and  gunners  a  competition 
in  cunning  at  once  arose  as  to  who  was  to  have 
the  horse-blankets.  Most  of  the  men  stretched 
themselves  out  under  the  ammunition  wagons 
and  guns,  where  the  dampness  of  the  night 
was  less  penetrating.  But  I  was  still  on 
stable  duty,  and  had  to  keep  watch  on  the 
horses,  which  were  tied  side  by  side  to  a  picket- 
line  stretched  between  two  stakes.  The 
animals  not  only  kicked  and  bit  each  other, 
but  their  collars  kept  getting  loose,  and 
one  or  two,  succeeding  in  throwing  them  off, 
ambled  off  into  the  fields.  I  spent  the  night 
in  wild  chases.  One  little  black  mare  in 
particular  led  me  a  dance  for  several  hours, 
and  I  only  caught  her  at  last  by  rustling  some 
oats  in  the  bottom  of  a  nose-bag. 

Whip  in  hand,  and  wet  up  to  the  knees  with 


APPROACH  MARCHES  39 

dew,  I  had  surely  fulfilled  my  task  as  stable- 
picket  conscientiously. 

Monday ,  August  10 

At  3  a.m.  the  grey  shadow  of  a  dirigible 
passed  overhead  beneath  the  stars.  Friend  or 
enemy? 

At  daybreak  the  park  began  to  stir.  Men 
draped  in  their  rugs  emerged  from  between 
the  gun-wheels  and  from  underneath  the  lim- 
bers and  stretched  themselves,  yawning.  We 
set  about  digging  hearths  and  fetching  wood 
and  water,  and  before  long  coffee  was  steaming 
in  the  camp  kettles. 

On  the  Verdun  road  infantry  regiments — 
off  to  the  firing-line  no  doubt — were  already 
defiling,  the  long  red-and-blue  column  rippling 
like  the  back  of  a  huge  caterpillar.  The  bat- 
talions were  hid,  for  a  moment,  by  the  cottages 
and  trees  of  the  village.  But  farther  ahead, 
on  the  corn-clad  slopes  of  the  hills,  one  could 
just  distinguish,  in  spite  of  the  distance,  the 
movements  of  troops  marching  on  the  thin 
white  ribbon  of  a  road. 

We  waited  for  the  order  to  harness. 

The  meadow  in  which  we  had  camped  for 
the  night  sloped  down,  on  the  one  side,  into 
marshy  ground  watered  by  a  stream  issuing 
from  a  mill  and  running  through  the  rank 


40  MY  -7? 

grass,  and  was  bounded  on  the  other  by  a 
rampart  of  wheat-sheaves.  To  the  east  a 
high  hill  of  symmetrical  contour,  covered 
with  yellow  barley  and  tawny  wheat,  gave  one 
the  impression  of  a  golden  mountain  shining 
in  the  sun. 

Behind  the  horses  tied  together  in  parallel 
lines  the  harness  made  black  patches  in  the 
grass.  Some  of  us  had  slept  there  under  our 
rugs.  Saddles,  propped  up  on  their  pommels, 
served  as  pillows  to  the  men,  who,  half 
undressed,  with  bare  chests,  slept  soundly.  I 
would  willingly  have  slept,  too,  for  I  was  tired 
out  with  running  about  all  night,  but  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  my  mother,  and  of  the 
anxiety  the  news  of  the  hecatombs  of  Alsace 
must  have  caused  her.  She  had  no  idea  of  my 
whereabouts  and  would  be  certain  to  think  that 
I  should  be  in  the  thick  of  any  fighting  in 
progress. 

On  the  road  columns  of  artillery  succeeded 
the  regiments  of  the  line.  It  was  nine  o'clock, 
but  so  far  no  sound  of  battle  had  yet  reached 
us.  A  driver,  shaking  his  rug,  woke  me,  and 
I  started  up.  In  my  turn  I  roused  Deprez, 
who  was  sleeping  near  me.  Was  it  the  guns? 
No,  not  yet. 

Official  news  came  that  the  Alsace  army, 
whose  headquarters  were  at  Mulhouse,  had 


APPROACH  MARCHES  41 

been  defeated  by  the  French  in  a  great  battle 
at  Altkirch.  The  beginning  of  the  Revenge! 
.  .  .  But  there  was  talk  of  fifty  thousand 
dead.  .  .  . 

Held  spellbound  by  a  sort  of  magnetic 
fascination  Deprez  and  I  riveted  our  gaze  on 
the  lofty  line  of  hills  to  the  east  which  stood 
between  us  and  Destiny.  Yonder  were  others 
like  ourselves,  masses  of  men  in  the  plains 
and  in  the  woods,  men  who  would  kill  us  if  we 
did  not  kill  them. 

Overcome  by  the  heat,  I  allowed  my  thoughts 
to  dwell  on  these  and  similar  reflections,  and  in 
vain  endeavoured  to  banish  from  my  mind  the 
horrible  picture  of  the  fifty  thousand  men  lying 
dead  on  the  fields  of  Alsace.  Eventually  I  fell 
asleep. 

They  have  just  killed,  by  means  of  a  re- 
volver-shot behind  the  ear,  a  horse  which  had 
broken  its  leg.  The  carcass  is  going  to  be  cut 
up,  and  the  best  portions  distributed  among 
the  battery  detachments. 

There  seems  no  likelihood  of  going  into  ac- 
tion to-day.  The  soup-kettles  had  been  put 
on  the  fires.  On  the  side  of  the  hill,  where 
the  corn  stood  in  sheaves,  the  men  were  build- 
ing straw  huts  in  which  to  pass  the  night. 


42  MY  -75 

As  the  sun  sank,  damp  vapours  began  to 
rise  from  the  stream  and  the  marshy  ground 
adjoining  it.  Side  by  side  on  our  bed  of  straw 
Deprez  and  I,  booted  and  spurred,  our  re- 
volver holsters  bruising  our  hips,  fell  asleep 
with  our  faces  upturned  to  the  stars,  which 
seemed  to  shine  more  brightly  than  usual  in 
the  eastern  sky. 

Tuesday,  August  1 1 

Shortly  after  dawn  we  were  ready  to  start. 
Some  of  the  i3Oth  Infantry  had  arrived  at  the 
next  village,  called  Ville-devant-Chaumont,  to 
take  up  their  quarters  there.  Pending  the 
order  to  advance  I  entered  into  conversation 
with  a  little  red-haired  foxy-faced  sergeant: 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "so  you're  from.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  don't  know  whether  many  of  the  i3Oth  will 
ever  get  back  there.  .  .  .  There  was  a  scrap 
yesterday.  .  .  .  Slaughter  simply  awful!  .  .  . 
My  battalion  wasn't  touched,  but  the  two 
others !  .  .  .  There  are  some  companies  which 
don't  count  more  than  ten  men,  and  haven't  a 
single  officer  left.  .  .  .  It's  their  machine- 
guns  which  are  so  frightful.  .  .  .  But  what  the 
devil  can  you  expect?  Two  battalions  against 
a  whole  division!" 

"But   why   didn't   the   third   battalion   join 


APPROACH  MARCHES  43 

"Blessed  if  I  know.  .  .  .  You  never  know  the 
reason  of  these  things." 
And  he  added: 

"Some  of  our  chaps  were  splendid.  .  .  . 
Lieutenant  X,  for  example.  .  .  .  He  jumped 
up,  drew  his  sword,  and  opening  his  tunic  he 
shouted  to  his  men:  'Come  on,  lads!'  .  .  . 
And  he  was  killed  on  the  spot.  .  .  .  The  flag? 
.  .  .  That  was  taken  by  the  enemy,  retaken 
by  one  of  our  captains,  and  then  again  cap- 
tured. Finally,  a  simple  private  got  hold  of  it, 
and  managed  to  hide  it  under  a  bridge  before 
he  died.  One  of  the  sections  of  the  H5th 
found  it  there.  .  .  .  And  then  the  artillery 
came  up  at  last.  .  .  .  Three  batteries  of  the 
3 1  st.  They  soon  made  them  clear  off.  .  .  . 
They  abandoned  two  batteries,  what's  more !" 

Orders  came  to  unharness.  What  heat! 
Transparent  vapours  rose  from  the  ground 
and  made  the  horizon  quiver.  From  time  to 
time  we  heard  the  muffled  sound  of  the  guns 
but  more  often  we  mistook  the  noise  of  the 
carts  on  the  road  for  firing.  Fleecy  white 
clouds  forming  above  the  crests  of  the  hills 
gave  one  the  impression  of  shells  bursting. 
For  a  moment  their  appearance  was  most 
deceptive. 


44  MY  .75 

I  saw  one  of  the  men  of  the  i3Oth  coming 
back  from  the  firing-line  in  a  wretched  con- 
dition, without  cap,  pack,  or  arms.  It  seemed 
wonderful  that  he  should  have  managed  to 
drag  himself  so  far.  With  staring,  frightened 
eyes  he  looked  nervously  from  one  side  to  the 
other.  The  gunners  surrounded  him  as  he 
stood  there,  with  bent  shoulders  and  hanging 
head,  but  he  only  answered  their  questions  by 
expressive  gestures. 

"Done  for!"  he  murmured.    "Done  for!" 

We  couldn't  hear  anything  else.  His  l>ps 
kept  moving: 

"Done  for!  ...  Done  for!" 

Down  he  flopped  in  the  middle  of  us,  and 
immediately  fell  asleep,  his  mouth  wide  open 
and  his  features  contracted  as  if  with  pain. 
Two  gunners  carried  him  into  a  neighbouring 
barn. 

I  heard  to-day  that  a  priest  of  Ville-devant- 
Chaumont  had  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
espionage  and  sent  to  Verdun. 

We  availed  ourselves  of  our  leisure  in  order 
to  wash  our  linen  and  have  a  bath  in  the  river. 
Then,  stretched  naked  on  the  grass,  we  waited 
until  the  sun  had  dried  our  shirts,  socks,  and 
underlinen,  which  lay  spread  out  around 
us. 


APPROACH  MARCHES  45 

Wednesday,  August  12 
The  French  are  fond  of  heroic  legends.  I 
have  now  found  out  the  truth  about  the  affair 
in  which  two  battalions  were  said  to  have  been 
cut  up,  and  there  is  not  the  least  resemblance 
to  the  highly  coloured  yarn  of  the  little  fox- 
faced  sergeant. 

On  August  10  the  officers  of  the  i3Oth  had 
not  the  slightest  suspicion  that  the  enemy 
were  so  close.  A  few  men  were  taken  by 
surprise  as  they  were  going  down  to  the 
river,  unarmed  and  half  undressed.  Imme- 
diately afterwards  the  fight  began,  and  the 
i3Oth  defended  themselves  bravely  against 
superior  numbers,  at  first  without  any  support 
from  the  artillery,  which,  having  received  no 
orders,  remained  in  its  quarters.  At  last  three 
batteries  of  the  3ist  arrived  and  succeeded 
in  repelling  the  German  attack.  We  were  the 
victors. 

As  for  Lieutenant  X,  who,  according  to 
the  sergeant,  had  been  killed  as  he  stood 
bare-chested  encouraging  his  men  to  attack,  it 
appears  that,  in  reality,  he  fell  into  the  river 
called  the  Loison.  The  chill  of  the  water, 
together  with  the  excitement  of  the  first 
brush  with  the  enemy,  set  up  congestion,  but 
he  is  now  reported  to  be  perfectly  fit  again. 


46  MY  -75 

That  is  fortunate,  for  he  is  a  valuable  officer. 

Several  of  his  men,  charging  too  soon,  also 
fell  into  the  river,  which  flows  right  across 
the  fields  between  very  low  banks.  There  they 
remained  as  if  entrenched,  with  the  water  up 
to  their  waists,  and  fought  as  best  they  could. 
The  flag  of  the  I30th  was  never  even  taken  out 
of  its  oil-skin  case. 

The  whole  day  was  spent  in  sleeping,  cook- 
ing, and  in  bathing  in  the  river.  Some  of  the 
drivers  with  their  teams  were  sent  off  to  trans- 
port the  wounded  of  the  i3Oth  to  Verdun. 

When  night  fell  we  stretched  ourselves  out 
on  the  grass  under  the  clear  sky  and  sang  in 
chorus  until  we  gradually  fell  asleep. 

If  only  those  we  have  left  behind  anxiously 
waiting  for  news  could  have  heard  us ! 

Thursday,  August  13 

To-day  some  of  the  i3Oth  brought  back  a 
grey  German  military  coat,  a  pair  of  boots,  a 
Uhlan's  helmet,  and  a  sort  of  round  infantry- 
man's cap,  looking  like  a  small  cheese.  These 
spoils  were  hung  up  in  a  barn,  and  attracted 
a  crowd  of  gunners.  They  belong  to  a  sergeant- 
major  who  was  proudly  exhibiting  them  to  the 
spectators,  calling  special  attention  to  a  small 
rent  in  the  back  of  the  coat. 


APPROACH  MARCHES  47 

"That's  where  the  bullet  went  in  that  did  for 
old  Steinberg,"  said  he.  "His  name's  marked 
inside.  .  .  .  See?" 

And  he  drew  himself  up,  beaming. 

Inaction  and  the  oppressive  heat  were  equal- 
ly distressing.  We  would  like  to  be  in  the  fight 
and  yet  we  apprehend  it  a  trifle. 

We  slept  in  the  shadow  made  by  the  horse 
blankets  tied  to  long  tent  pickets. 

Monday's  skirmish  will  be  called  the  com- 
bat of  Mangiennes. 

Friday,  August  14 

We  had  started  off  again  at  dawn,  and  now 
stood  waiting  for  orders.  The  Captain  had 
sent  the  battery  forward  down  the  lane  leading 
to  the  main  road  to  Verdun.  The  horses 
splashed  about  in  the  water  running  out  from 
a  drinking-trough  hard  by,  and  spattered  us 
liberally  with  mud.  After  waiting  till  the  sun 
was  well  up,  we  unbridled  and  gave  the  teams 
some  oats. 

Reserve  regiments  of  the  Army  Corps  began 
to  file  by — the  3Oist,  303 rd,  and  33Oth.  The 
men  were  white  with  dust  up  to  the  knees. 
Stubbly  beards  of  eight  days'  growth  darkened 
their  faces  and  gave  them  a  haggard  appear- 
ance. Their  coats,  opened  in  front  and  folded 
back  under  their  shoulder-straps,  showed 


48  MY  -75 

glimpses  of  hairy  chests,  the  veins  in  their 
necks  standing  out  like  whipcord  under  the 
weight  of  their  packs.  These  reservists  looked 
grave,  resolute,  and  fierce. 

They  swung  by  with  a  noise  like  a  torrent 
rushing  over  pebbles,  the  sight  of  our  guns 
bringing  a  smile  of  pleasure  to  their  faces. 
The  foremost  battalions  climbed  up  the  hill. 
There  were  so  many  men  that  nothing  could  be 
seen  of  the  road,  nor  even  of  the  red  breeches. 
The  moving  human  ribbon  scintillated  with  re- 
flections cast  by  kettles,  shovels,  and  picks. 

We  had  filled  our  water-bags,  and  some  of 
the  soldiers,  as  they  streamed  past,  replenished 
their  drinking  tins  from  them.  Then  they 
strode  on,  their  lips  glued  to  the  brims,  re- 
straining the  swing  of  their  step  in  order  not  to 
lose  a  drop  of  the  precious  liquid. 

At  last  the  battery  moved  on.  But  it  was 
only  to  camp  at  Azannes,  about  a  mile  south- 
east of  Ville-devant-Chaumont,  where  we  were 
hardly  any  nearer  to  the  enemy.  On  the 
road  a  continual  cloud  of  dust  was  raised  by 
guns  and  wagons,  motors  full  of  superior 
officers,  and  squadrons  of  cavalry  escorting 
gold-braided  Staffs.  The  horses  were  smoth- 
ered in  it,  and  our  dark  uniforms  soon  became 
grey,  while  our  eyebrows  and  unshorn  chins 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  powdered.  Paris 


APPROACH  MARCHES  49 

motor-omnibuses,  transformed  into  commis- 
sariat wagons,  put  the  final  touch  as  they  lum- 
bered by,  and  left  us  as  white  as  the  road  itself. 

"Limber  up!" 

"What?" 

"Limber  up,  quick  now,  carry  on!" 

The  order  was  repeated  by  the  Sergeants, 
and  the  Captain,  who  passed  us  spurring  his 
horse,  said  simply: 

"We  are  going  into  action." 

Then,  followed  by  the  gun-commanders, 
trumpeters,  and  battery-leaders,  he  set  off  at  a 
gallop. 

We  passed  through  Azannes,  where  we 
were  to  have  camped.  It  is  a  wretched- 
looking  village,  full  of  manure-heaps,  and 
composed  of  low-built  cottages  eloquent  of  the 
fact  that  here  no  one  has  thought  it  worth 
while  to  undertake  building  or  repair  work  of 
any  kind.  It  is  not  that  the  surrounding 
country  is  barren,  but  the  perpetual  threat  of 
war  and  invasion  has  nipped  all  initiative  in  the 
bud.  The  poorer  one  is  the  less  one  has  to  lose. 

After  passing  Azannes  the  column  lapsed 
into  silence.  The  road  skirted  the  cemetery, 
in  the  walls  of  which  the  infantry,  at  every  few 
yards,  had  knocked  loopholes  through  which 
we  caught  glimpses  of  graves,  chapels,  and 


5°  -75 

crosses.  At  the  foot  of  the  walls  lay  heaps  of 
rubble  and  mortar.  Farther  on,  near  the  edge 
of  a  wood,  the  field  had  been  seared  by  a 
narrow  trench,  covered  with  lopped-off 
branches  bearing  withered  leaves,  and  showing 
up  against  the  fresh  green  grass  like  a  yellow 
gash. 

In  front  of  the  trench  barbed  wire  had  been 
stretched.  The  enemy,  therefore,  was  presum- 
ably not  far  off. 

Amid  the  monotonous  rumble  of  the  car- 
riages we  tried  to  collect  our  thoughts.  The 
prospect  of  the  first  engagement  brought  with 
it  an  apprehension  and  dread  which  clamoured 
for  recognition  in  each  man's  mind.  There  is 
no  denying  the  fact. 

The  battery  rolled  on  its  way  through  a 
large  wood.  The  road,  almost  blindingly  white 
in  the  midday  sun,  formed  a  striking  contrast 
to  the  arch-shaped  avenues  of  sombre  trees, 
whose  green  plumes  towered  above  us  at  a 
giddy  height. 

By  the  side  of  the  road  stood  a  horse  with 
drooping  head  and  the  viscous  discharge  due 
to  strangles  running  from  his  nostrils;  he  did 
not  even  budge  as  the  guns  and  wagons  thun- 
dered on  their  way.  It  seemed  almost  a  mir- 
acle that  the  bones  of  the  poor  beast's  haunches 
had  not  broken  through  his  skin.  His  flanks, 


APPROACH  MARCHES  51 

heaving  spasmodically,  seemed  to  meet  behind 
his  ribs,  as  if  they  had  been  emptied  of  flesh 
and  entrails.  He  was  a  pitiful  sight.  In  the 
shade  of  a  bridle-path  yet  another  abandoned 
horse  was  still  browsing. 

Between  two  clumps  of  trees  lay  a  pond 
bordered  by  reeds  and  rushes,  its  surface 
shimmering  like  a  silver  mirror — an  effect 
which  was  heightened  by  the  dark  woodlands 
in  the  background.  In  the  distance  the  mag- 
nificent line  of  lofty  hills  which  had  hidden  the 
horizon  from  us  at  Ville-devant-Chaumont,  and 
which  we  had  now  flanked,  formed  an  azure 
setting  to  the  picture.  On  one  side  of  the 
road  stood  a  farmhouse.  In  a  small  paddock 
near  the  flood-gates  of  the  pond  we  saw  a 
freshly  dug  grave  in  the  shade  of  an  elder-bush. 
A  cross,  roughly  fashioned  out  of  a  couple  of 
branches  tied  together,  was  planted  in  the 
newly  turned  soil,  and  a  ruled  leaf  torn  out 
of  a  pocket-book,  stuck  on  to  some  splinter  of 
the  wood,  bore  a  name  roughly  written  in 
pencil. 

On  emerging  from  the  forest  our  batteries, 
which  up  to  then  had  been  in  column  of  route, 
rapidly  deployed  down  the  side  of  a  long 
valley,  half  hidden  by  the  oat-crops,  through 
which  infantry,  whose  presence  could  only  be 


52  MY  -75 

guessed,  caused  ripples  to  flow  like  those  raised 

by  a  puff  of  wind  on  still  water. 

Where  was  the  enemy?  What  were  these 
positions  worth,  and  from  what  point  could 
they  be  observed?  Was  the  infantry  on 
ahead  protecting  us?  In  a  fever  of  excite- 
ment we  formed  up  in  battery  in  a  neighbour- 
ing meadow.  The  limbers  retired  to  the  rear 
and  took  cover  in  the  woods.  Brejard  at 
once  ordered  us  to  complete  the  usual  pro- 
tection afforded  by  the  gun-shields  and  am- 
munition wagons  by  piling  up  large  sods  of 
turf  which  we  hacked  up  with  our  picks. 
As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  stretched  the 
motionless  oats,  like  masses  of  molten  metal 
under  a  sky  of  unbroken  blue.  As  the  gun- 
layers  could  not  find  as  much  as  a  tree  or 
sheaf  to  serve  as  an  aiming  point  we  had  to 
go  out  and  plant  a  spade  in  front  of  the  battery. 
I  should  not  have  suspected  the  strength  of  the 
artillery — more  than  sixty  guns — waiting  for 
the  enemy  in  this  field,  had  I  not  seen  the 
batteries  take  up  their  positions,  and  had  it  not 
been  for  the  observation-ladders  upon  which, 
perched  like  large  black  insects  on  the  points 
of  so  many  grass-blades,  the  gun-commanders 
were  to  be  seen  surveying  the  land  to  the  north- 
east. 

We  were  ready  for  action,  and  lying  behind 


APPROACH  MARCHES  53 

our  guns  awaited  the  word  "Fire!"  No  sound 
of  battle  was  audible. 

A  gunnery  officer  brought  some  order  to  the 
Captain,  and  the  latter,  waving  his  kepi,  sig- 
nalled for  the  limbers  to  be  brought  up. 

"Hallo!     What's  up  now?" 

"We're  off,"  answered  Brejard,  who  had 
overheard  the  orders. 

"Aren't  the  Germans  coming  then?" 

"I  don't  know.  That  officer  told  the  Cap- 
tain that  after  this  the  fourth  group  would 
be  attached  to  the  seventh  division." 

"Well,  and  what  then?" 

"Well,  the  fourth  group  has  got  to  go." 

"Where?" 

"Probably  to  camp  at  Azannes." 

Rather  disappointed  at  having  done  nothing 
we  returned  westwards  by  the  same  road, 
bathed  in  an  aureole  of  crimson  light  cast  by 
the  setting  sun. 

The  horse  with  the  strangles  was  now  lying 
down  in  the  ditch.  He  was  still  breathing,  and 
from  time  to  time  tossed  his  head  in  order  to 
shake  off  the  wasps  which  collected  in  yellow 
clusters  round  his  eyes  and  nostrils. 

We  encamped  at  Azannes,  and  the  horses, 
tethered  under  the  plum-trees  planted  in  fives, 
wearied  by  the  march,  the  dust,  and  the  heat, 


54  MY  -75 

let  me  rest  and  dream  away  my  four  hours' 

duty. 

The  night  was  clear,  illuminated  by  the  Ver- 
dun searchlights  which  stretched  golden  fingers 
into  the  sky.  A  magnificent  mid-August  night, 
scintillating  with  constellations  and  alive  with 
shooting  stars  which  left  long  phosphorescent 
tails  behind  them. 

The  moon  rose,  and  with  difficulty  broke 
through  the  dense  foliage  of  the  plum-trees. 
The  camp  remained  dark  except  for  occasional 
patches  of  light  on  the  grass  and  on  the  backs 
of  the  horses  as  they  stood  sleeping.  My 
fellow-sentry  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  a  pear- 
tree,  wrapped  in  his  greatcoat.  In  front  of 
me  the  plain  was  lit  up  by  the  moon,  and  the 
meadows  were  veiled  in  a  white  mist.  Both 
armies,  with  fires  extinguished,  were  sleeping 
or  watching  each  other. 

Saturday,  August  15 
I  was  helping  Hutin  to  clean  the  gun. 
"Well,   Hutin,   war's  a  nice  sort  of  show, 
isn't  it?" 

"Well,  if  it  consists  in  fooling  about  like 
this  till  the  22nd  September,  when  my  class 
will  be  discharged,  I'd  rather  be  in  the  field 
than  the  barracks.  We've  never  been  so  well 
fed  in  our  lives!  If  only  that  lasts!  .  .  ." 


APPROACH  MARCHES  55 

"Yes,  provided  it  lasts!  Only,  there  are 
Boches  here." 

"Who  cares?" 

"And  then,  we  don't  get  many  letters." 

"No,  that's  true;  we  don't  get  enough,"  said 
Hutin  with  some  bitterness,  viciously  shoving 
his  sponge  through  the  bore. 

And  he  added: 

"And  as  for  the  letters  we  write  ourselves, 
we  can't  say  where  we  are,  nor  what  we  are 
doing,  nor  even  put  a  date.  What  is  one  to 
write?" 

"Well,  I  simply  say  that  it  is  fine  and  that 
I  am  still  alive." 

Always  the  same  silence  along  the  lines.  That 
has  lasted  for  days  now.  What  can  it  mean? 
For  us,  pawns  on  the  great  chess-board,  this 
waiting  is  agonising,  and  stretches  our  nerves 
to  that  painful  tension  which  one  feels  some- 
times when  watching  a  leaden  sky,  waiting  for 
the  storm  to  break. 

To-day  I  saw  General  Boe'lle,  whose  motor 
stopped  on  the  road  quite  close  to  our  camp. 

He  is  a  man  with  refined  features,  of  cheerful 
expression,  still  youthful-looking  despite  his 
white  hair  and  grizzled  moustache. 

The  classic  popularity  of  war  trophies  ha* 


56  MY  -75 

not  diminished.    Quite  a  crowd  collected  round 

a  cyclist  who  had  brought  back  from  Mangi- 

ennes  two  German  cowskin  bags  and  a  Mauser 

rifle. 

It  is  astonishing  how  quickly  instinct  de- 
velops in  war.  Civilisation  disappears  almost 
at  once,  and  the  relations  between  man  and 
man  become  primitively  direct.  One's  first 
preoccupation  is  to  make  oneself  respected. 
This  necessity  is  not  implicitly  recognised  by 
all,  but  every  one  acts  as  if  he  recognised  it. 
Then  again,  the  sense  of  authority  becomes 
transformed.  The  authority  conferred  on  the 
Captain  by  his  rank  diminishes,  while  that 
which  he  owes  to  his  character  increases  in 
proportion.  Authority  has,  in  fact,  but  one 
measure:  the  confidence  of  the  men  in  the 
capability  of  their  officer.  For  this  reason 
our  Captain,  Brisoult,  in  whom  even  the  dens- 
est among  us  has  recognised  exceptional  intel- 
ligence and  decision  under  a  great  charm  of 
manner  and  invariable  courtesy,  exercises, 
thanks  to  this  confidence,  a  beneficial  influence 
upon  all.  And  yet  his  actual  personality,  as 
our  chief,  makes  little  impression  upon  one  at 
first.  Captain  de  Brisoult  never  commands. 
He  gives  his  orders  in  an  ordinary  conversa- 
tional tone;  but,  a  man  of  inborn  tact  and  re- 


APPROACH  MARCHES  57 

finement,  he  always  remains  the  Captain,  even 
while  living  with  his  men  upon  terms  of  in- 
timacy. It  is  hard  to  say  whether  he  is  more 
loved  than  respected,  or  more  respected  than 
loved.  And  soldiers  know  something  about 
men. 

In  the  rough  masculine  relations  between 
the  artillerymen  among  themselves  there  never- 
theless remains  a  place  for  real  friendships, 
but  they  become  rarer.  The  ties  of  simple 
barrack  comradeship  either  disappear  or 
harden  into  tacit  treaties  of  real  friendship. 
The  mainspring  of  this  is  rather  egoism  than 
a  need  of  affection.  One  is  vividly  conscious 
of  the  necessity  of  having  close  at  hand  a  man 
upon  whose  assistance  one  can  always  rely, 
and  to  whom  one  knows  one  can  turn  in  no 
matter  what  circumstances.  In  the  relation- 
ships thus  wordlessly  established,  a  choice  is  a 
necessity;  they  are  not  engendered  by  affinities 
of  character  alone.  One  learns  to  appreciate 
in  one's  friend  his  value  as  a  help  and  also  his 
strength  and  courage. 

Sunday,  August  16 

I  have  only  just  heard  of  an  heroic  episode 
which  occurred  during  our  expedition  on 
Friday.  It  might  be  called  "The  Charge  of 
the  Baggage -train." 


58  MY  -75 

During  our  march  through  the  woods  to- 
wards the  enemy  we  were  followed  at  some 
distance  by  our  supply  wagons.  When  we 
turned,  we  passed  them,  and  they  resumed 
their  position  behind  the  batteries.  The  head 
of  the  column  had  almost  reached  Azannes 
when  the  rear  was  still  in  the  thick  of  the 
woods.  Suddenly  a  lively  fusillade  was  opened 
from  the  depths  of  the  trees  on  the  right  and 
left  of  the  train,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
noise  of  galloping  horses  was  heard  from 
behind.  The  Petty  Officer  bringing  up  the  rear 
behind  the  forage  wagon,  who  was  riding 
near  the  cow  belonging  to  the  Group,  which 
was  being  led  by  one  of  the  gun-numbers, 
convinced  that  the  enemy's  infantry  was 
attacking  the  column  from  the  flank  while 
a  brigade  of  cavalry  was  coming  up  from 
the  rear,  yelled  out,  "Run  for  your  lives! 
The  Uhlans  are  coming!"  The  gunners 
jumped  from  the  carriages,  loaded  their  mus- 
kets, and,  suddenly,  without  any  orders,  the 
column  broke  into  a  gallop.  The  men  followed 
as  best  they  might.  But  the  horses  of  the 
forage  wagon,  restive  under  the  lash,  reared, 
backed,  and  jibbed,  kicking  the  cow,  which, 
in  her  turn,  pulled  away  from  the  man 
leading  her,  first  to  right  and  then  to  left, 
finally  breaking  loose  and  setting  out  at 


APPROACH  MARCHES  59 

a  gallop  behind  the  wagons  in  a  thick  cloud 
of  dust. 

A  few  seconds  afterwards  the  cavalry  which 
had  been  heard  approaching  came  up.  It  was 
the  General  of  Artillery,  who,  with  his  Staff 
and  escort  of  Chasseurs,  had  routed  our  bag- 
gage-train. As  for  the  fusillade,  it  came  from 
two  companies  of  the  iO2nd  of  the  line,  who, 
concealed  in  the  woods,  had  opened  fire  on  a 
German  aeroplane. 

The  weather  is  changing.  Already  yester- 
day evening  the  storm  gathering  on  our  left 
had  made  us  prick  up  our  ears  as  if  we  heard 
gunfire.  At  breakfasrytime  we  were  surprised 
by  a  heavy  shower,  and  had  to  abandon  the 
kettles  on  the  fires  and  take  shelter  under  the 
wagons  and  trees.  To-day  it  has  been  raining 
slowly  but  steadily.  If  this  weather  goes  on 
we  shall  have  to  look  out  for  dysentery! 

Sitting  on  blankets  in  a  circle  round  the 
fire,  which  was  patiently  tended  by  the  cook, 
we  drank  our  coffee.  My  comrades  asked  me 
to  read  them  a  few  pages  from  my  notebook, 
and  wished  me  a  safe  return  in  order  that 
these  reminiscences,  which  to  a  great  extent 
are  theirs  also,  might  be  published. 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  the  names  in?" 
"Yes,  unless  you  don't  want  me  to." 


60  MY  -75 

"No,  of  course  not.  We'll  show  them  to 
the  old  people  and  children  later  on,  if  we  get 
back." 

"If  I  am  killed,  one  of  you  will  take  care  of 
my  notebook.  I  keep  it  here — see? — in  the 
inside  pocket  of  my  shirt." 

Hutin  thought  a  little. 

"Yes,  only  you  know  that  it's  forbidden  to 
search  dead  men.  You'd  better  make  a  note  in 
your  book  to  say  you  told  us  to  take  it." 

He  was  quite  right,  so  on  the  first  page  I 
wrote:  "In  case  I  am  killed  I  beg  my  com- 
rades to  keep  these  pages  until  they  can  give 
them  to  my  family." 

"Now  you've  made  your  arrangements 
mortis  causa,"  said  Le  Bidois,  who  was  reading 
over  my  shoulder.  And  he  added : 

"That  doesn't  increase  the  risk  either." 

Le  Bidois  is  a  thin,  lanky  fellow  rather  like 
the  King  of  Spain,  for  which  reason  Deprez 
and  I  have  nicknamed  him  Alfonso.  Every 
day  we  fire  oft  the  old  Montmartre  catch  at 
him: 

dlfonso,  dlfonso, 
Feux-tu  te  t'nir  comme  il  fo! 

We  also  call  him  "the  Spanish  Grandee." 
He  never  gets  annoyed. 


APPROACH  MARCHES  61 

"A  jewel  of  a  corporal!"  as  Moratin,  his 
layer,  always  says. 

Some  of  the  26th  Artillery  have  brought 
back  two  ammunition  wagons  abandoned  by 
the  enemy  at  Mangiennes.  Painted  a  dark 
colour  they  resembled  the  old  90  mm.  material 
with  which  we  used  to  practise  when  training 
at  Le  Mans.  They  were  followed  by  two 
large  carts,  of  the  usual  type  used  by  the 
Meuse  peasantry,  long  and  narrow  in  build, 
full  of  packs,  tins,  kepis  marked  130,  camp- 
kettles  already  blackened  by  bivouac  fires, 
belts  with  brass  buckle-plates,  and  caps  with 
dark  stains  on  them.  On  the  top  bristled  a 
heap  of  bayonets  and  rifles,  red  with  rust  and 
blood.  A  large  blue  flannel  sash,  sopping  wet, 
hung  behind  one  of  the  carts,  and  trailed  in 
the  muddy  road.  These  were  the  wardrobes  of 
the  unfortunate  infantry  killed  at  Mangiennes. 

This  spectacle,  rendered  the  more  harrowing 
by  the  rain,  moved  us  more  than  all  the 
stones  we  had  heard  about  last  Monday's 
fight. 

As  I  was  taking  some  horses  down  to  drink 
I  saw,  near  the  gate  of  the  loopholed  cemetery 
at  Azannes,  some  soldiers  who  had  fallen 
asleep,  stretched  out  anywhere,  exhausted  and 
half  undressed.  They  might  have  been  taken 
for  dead  men.  That  is  how  I  think  the 


62  MY  -75 

fellows  killed  at  Mangiennes  must  have  looked. 
And  those  rags  conjured  up  anew  a  vision  of 
the  trenches  where  they  were  lined  up. 

In  the  absolute  silence  which  for  eight  days 
now  has  reigned  all  along  the  line  we  have 
almost  forgotten  the  work  of  death  for  which 
we  have  come  here. 

At  nightfall,  after  swallowing  some  hot 
soup,  we  returned  to  our  billets,  which  are  in 
a  large  barn  where  it  is  possible  to  get  a  good 
sleep  in  the  straw.  Soldiers  of  every  rank  and 
regiment  were  swarming  in  the  village,  and 
blue  dolmans  of  the  Chasseurs  and  the  red 
breeches  of  the  Infantry  giving  a  welcome  dash 
of  colour  to  the  sombre  uniforms  of  the 
Artillery  and  Engineers  as  they  all  jostled  to- 
gether in  the  street.  Some  of  them,  carrying 
in  each  hand  a  pailful  of  water,  shouted  and 
swore  at  the  others  to  let  them  pass. 

It  was  still  raining,  and  from  the  manure- 
heaps  by  the  side  of  the  road  thick  clouds  of 
steam  arose.  The  cavalrymen  had  made 
hoods  of  their  horse-blankets,  and  many  of  the 
foot-soldiers  were  sheltering  their  heads  and 
shoulders  under  sacks  of  coarse  brown  canvas 
which  they  had  found  in  the  barns  or  wagons. 
The  whole  of  this  muddy  multitude  was 
almost  silent  and  solely  bent  upon  getting 


APPROACH  MARCHES  63 

back  to  their  billets.  Almost  the  only  sound 
was  the  tramping  of  many  feet  in  the  mire. 
Four  sappers,  scaling  a  ladder  to  a  loft  from 
which  hay  was  crowding  out  through  a  dark, 
wide-open  window,  looked  like  a  bunch  of 
black  grapes  hanging  in  mid-air. 

Monday,  August  17 

It  was  still  raining  when  we  started.  Carts 
full  of  debris  continued  to  pass  us,  each  more 
heavily  laden  and  each  more  dreadful  to  see 
than  the  last. 

I  heard  that  a  Chasseur,  whom  I  noticed 
yesterday  morning  mounted  on  a  little  bay 
horse,  had  been  surprised  by  a  party  of 
Uhlans.  They  bound  him  hand  and  foot  and 
then,  with  a  lance-thrust  in  the  neck,  bled  him 
as  one  bleeds  a  pig.  A  peasant  who  had 
witnessed  the  scene  from  behind  a  hedge  told 
me  of  this  devilish  crime.  He  was  still  white 
with  horror. 

Last  night  the  horses  lay  in  mud  and  dung. 
This  morning  their  manes  and  tails  were  stiff 
with  mire,  and  large  plasters  of  manure 
covered  their  haunches  and  flanks,  giving  them 
the  appearance  of  badly  kept  cows.  As  for 
us,  besmeared  with  dirt  up  to  the  knees  and 
with  our  boots  a  mass  of  mud,  we  looked  more 


64  MY  -75 

heavy  than  ever  in  our  dark  cloaks,  which 
were  wet  through  and  hung  in  straight  folds 
from  our  shoulders. 

We  again  started  off,  this  time  to  take  up 
fresh  quarters  at  Moirey.  From  Azannes  to 
Moirey  is  little  more  than  a  mile,  but  the  road 
was  blocked  with  wagons,  and  at  every  instant 
we  had  to  halt  and  draw  to  one  side. 

The  Captain  gave  the  word : 

"Dismount!" 

The  men,  tortured  by  diarrhoea,  availed 
themselves  of  the  opportunity  and  scattered 
into  the  fields. 

At  Moirey  we  encamped  under  some  plum- 
trees  planted  in  fives,  where  we  were  as  badly 
off  as  we  had  been  at  Azannes.  Under  the 
feet  of  the  horses  the  grass  immediately  be- 
came converted  into  mud. 

The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  cover  over  with 
earth  the  filth  left  there  by  troops  who  had 
preceded  us.  The  question  of  sanitary  arrange- 
ments is  a  serious  one.  It  is  true  that  a  sort 
of  little  trenches  called  feuillces  are  dug  on 
one  side  of  the  camp,  but  many  men  obsti- 
nately refuse  to  use  them,  and  prefer  to  make 
use  of  any  haphazard  spot  at  the  risk  of  being 
drive-  oft  by  whip-lashes  by  others  of  more 
cleanly  disposition.  A  regular  guard  has  to  be 
kept  round  the  guns  and  horses.  It  is  useless 


APPROACH  MARCHES  65 

for  the  officers  to  threaten  severe  punishment 
to  any  man  taken  in  the  act  outside  the 
feuillees.  Nothing  stops  them.  The  Captain 
keeps  repeating: 

"What  a  set  of  hogs!" 

To-night  the  sound  of  the  guns  is  quite 
close.  Perhaps  we  shall  go  into  action  at 
last. 

It  was  a  difficult  job  to  find  any  wood  fit 
to  burn.  Such  as  there  was  was  damp  and 
when  burning  gave  off  a  thick  acrid  smoke 
which  the  wind  blew  down  upon  us.  We  had 
to  fetch  the  water  for  the  soup  from  more  than 
300  yards  away,  and  then  keep  a  constant  look- 
out to  prevent  the  horses  from  getting  at  it. 
The  bread  just  given  out  was  mouldy,  and  we 
had  to  toast  it  in  order  to  take  away  the 
musty  taste. 

When  it  is  time  to  water  the  teams  the  only 
street  of  the  village  is  thronged  with  horses 
either  led  or  ridden  bare-back.  Six  batteries 
are  encamped  round  Moirey,  and  there  is  only 
one  pond  into  which  a  thin  stream  of  clear 
water,  not  more  than  two  fingers  thick, 
trickles  from  a  fountain.  Every  twenty  paces 
one  has  to  stop  and  manoeuvre  in  order  to 
avoid  kicks,  and  the  men,  annoyed  by  the 
delay,  swear  at  each  other  without  reason. 


66  MY  -75 

After  four  or  five  minutes  one  advances 
another  twenty  paces,  and,  when  finally  the 
pond  is  reached,  the  men  and  beasts  sinking 
ankle-deep  in  mud,  it  is  only  to  find  that 
hundreds  of  horses  have  left  so  much  drivel 
and  slime  on  the  water  that  our  animals  refuse 
to  drink. 

It  is  reported  that  there  has  been  i  great 
battle  near  Nancy  and  that  we  have  won  the 
day.  Why  don't  we  advance  also? 

Tuesday,  August  18 

Lucas,  the  cyclist  of  the  battery,  succeec^d 
in  finding  two  bottles  of  champagne,  which 
he  hid  in  a  corner  of  the  guard-house  where 
Le  Bidois,  who  was  on  sentry  duty,  kept  m 
•eye  on  them. 

Lucas  is  a  young  draughtsman  of  talent. 
His  character  is  faithfully  reflected  by  his 
face — fresh,  mobile,  perhaps  a  little  feminine. 
You  meet  him  in  the  morning  and  he  seizes 
you  by  the  arm : 

"Oh,    my    dear    chap  .  .  .  such    a    pretty 
little  woman  ...  a  perfect  dream!  .  .  ." 
And  the  same  evening  he  will  say: 
"Oh,    my    dear    chap  .  .   .   such    a    fraud. 
.  .  .  No,  not  a  word  I  .  .  .  What  a  fraud!" 
It  appears  that  at  Damvillers,  a  neighbour- 
ing village,  he  has  made  the  conquest  of  a  little 


APPROACH  MARCHES  67 

woman  who  sells  tobacco.  And  he  still 
manages  to  get  hold  of  cigarettes,  writing- 
paper,  liqueurs,  and  even  champagne,  whereas 
no  one  else  has  been  able  to  lay  hands  on  any 
of  these  luxuries  for  some  time  past. 

When  night  fell  he  gave  us  a  sign,  and 
Deprez  and  I  followed  him  to  the  door  of  the 
guard-house  in  which  loomed  the  lanky  figure 
of  Le  Bidois,  who  was  leaning  on  his  sword. 
The  guard-house  is  an  old  tumble-down  hut 
only  kept  erect  by  the  ivy  growing  round  it. 
The  door  only  boasts  one  hinge,  and  the  worm- 
eaten  steps  leading  to  the  loft  are  crumbling 
into  dust.  But  still  we  found  it  a  snug  enough 
place  in  which  to  drink  our  champagne. 

Wednesday,  August  19 

The  first  gun  has  a  team  which  is  the  joy 
of  the  whole  battery.  This  is  owing  to 
Astruc  and  his  off-horse  Jericho.  Astruc, 
with  bright  brown  eyes  and  a  face  like  a 
carrion-crow,  is  not  much  taller  than  a  walking- 
stick  and  has  hardly  any  legs.  Jericho  is  a 
vicious  brute  that  kicks,  bites,  and  refuses  to 
be  groomed.  Astruc  holds  long  conversations 
with  him,  and  every  morning  greets  him  like 
one  greets  an  old  friend  who  is  a  little  crabbed, 
but  of  whom  one  is  really  fond: 

"Well,  Jericho,  old  boy,  what  have  you  got 


68  MY  -75 

to  say?    Have  you  been  dreaming  of  German 

mares?" 

Brejard  pointed  out  to  Astruc  that  Jericho 
is  a  gelding. 

"Oh!"  retorted  Astruc,  "I  expect  he  gets 
ideas  in  his  head  all  the  same." 

But  to-day  Jericho  was  in  a  specially  bad 
temper,  and  wouldn't  let  himself  be  bridled 
in  order  to  be  led  down  to  the  watering-place. 

"What's  up,  old  chap?"  asked  Astruc. 
"Oh,  I  see  what  you  want!  You  haven't 
had  your  quid  this  morning,  have  you?  .  .  . 
It's  your  quid  you're  after." 

And  he  held  out  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
a  pinch  of  tobacco  which  the  horse  swallowed 
with  avidity.  When  Astruc  is  astride  his 
near-horse,  Hermine,  Jericho  bites  his  boot, 
and  the  more  Astruc  whips  him  the  harder  he 
clenches  his  teeth. 

"Well,"  says  Astruc,  "I  bet  that  if  I  leave 
Jericho  in  a  melee  he'll  eat  as  many  Boches 
as  he  can  get  his  teeth  into.  If  only  we'd  a 
hundred  more  like  him !" 

And  looking  the  horse  full  in  the  face  he 
added: 

"It's  odd,  you  know!  The  brute's  got  a 
naughty  twinkle  in  his  eyes  .  .  .  just  like 
one  of  those  girls.  .  .  ." 

A   corps   of  pontoon   engineers   passed   by 


APPROACH  MARCHES  69 

our  camp,  their  long,  steel-plated  boats  loaded 
on  carts,  keel  uppermost.  Some  foundered 
horses,  tied  behind  the  vehicles,  followed  with 
hanging  head  and  limping  step,  a  look  of 
suffering  in  their  bleared  eyes — a  pitiful  sight. 
Far  down  the  road,  winding  its  way  through 
the  long  valley  and  white  under  the  morning 
sun,  one  could  see  the  column  toiling  up  a  hill 
as  if  ascending  to  the  blue  sky.  At  that 
distance  men  and  horses  seemed  no  more  than 
a  swarm  of  black  ants,  but  the  steel  bottoms 
of  the  boats  still  glinted  in  the  sunshine.  In 
front  of  us  the  long  line  still  passed  slowly  by. 
The  men's  health  is  excellent,  but  the  horses 
stand  this  new  life  less  successfully.  Last 
Friday  we  had  to  leave  one  on  the  road, 
and  yesterday  an  old  battery  horse  named 
Defricheur  died  in  his  turn.  We  had  to  pre- 
pare a  grave  for  him,  and  four  men  had  been 
digging  for  more  than  an  hour  in  the  hard 
and  rocky  ground  when  the  mayor  of  Moirey 
arrived  on  the  scene.  The  grave  had  been  dug 
too  close  to  the  houses,  so  they  had  to  drag  the 
heavy  carcass  farther  on  and  begin  digging 
again.  Unfortunately  the  measurements  of 
the  new  grave  had  been  badly  calculated,  and 
Defricheur,  a  proper  gendarme's  horse,  could 
not  be  crammed  into  it.  The  men  were 
heartily  tired  of  digging  and  so,  with  a  few 


70  MY  -75 

"blows  of  their  spades  and  picks,  they  broke 
his  legs  and  folded  them  under  his  belly,  so 
that  at  last  he  could  be  squeezed  into  the  pit. 

The  hill  which  had  limited  our  horizon  at 
Villa-devant-Chaumont  was  still  to  be  seen 
rising  on  the  east  in  solitary  splendour,  its 
outlines  traced  as  if  by  compasses.  Beneath 
the  azure  sky  it  shone  like  a  mass  of  burnished 
bronze. 

Moirey  lies  in  the  lap  of  a  valley  and  consists 
of  a  few  dilapidated  cottages  roofed  with 
broken  tiles.  No  matter  from  which  side  one 
goes  away  from  the  village  it  is  instantly 
hidden  by  an  intervening  spur  of  the  hills,  so 
that  one  can  only  see  the  top  of  the  roofs 
and  the  short,  rectangular  steeple  covered  with 
slates. 

As  we  were  grooming  our  horses  in  a  field 
through  which  a  brook  bubbled  along  amid  the 
iris,  a  bevy  of  white-capped  girls  came  down 
from  the  village. 

The  only  means  of  getting  over  the  river 
was  a  narrow  bridge.  This  we  barred  by 
standing  a  couple  of  horses  athwart  it,  and, 
by  way  of  toll,  demanded  kisses.  The  girls, 
their  rosy-cheeked  faces  smiling  under  the 
spreading  butterfly-wings  of  their  caps,  at 
first  hesitated.  Then  one  of  them  took  a 
run,  jumped,  and  splashed  into  the  water. 


APPROACH  MARCHES  71 

The  others  learnt  wisdom  from  her  example 
and  decided  to  pay  the  toll. 

"Come  on  now!  Just  one  kiss,  you  know!" 
said  Deprez.  "That's  not  so  dear  in  war-time  I'* 

They  paid  conscientiously. 

Friday,  August  21 

To-day  there  was  a  fog  when  we  awoke. 
Almost  immediately  the  Captain  gave  the 
word  to  harness,  and  five  o'clock  had  not 
yet  struck  when  we  started.  The  road  was 
cut  up  into  ruts  by  the  artillery  which  for  three 
days  had  been  passing  over  it,  and  we  were 
so  shaken  on  the  limbers  that  we  could 
scarcely  breathe. 

Luckily  the  column  was  advancing  at  a 
walking  pace. 

The  fog  had  collected  at  the  end  of  the 
valley.  On  the  right  enormous  and  regularly 
formed  mounds  rose  like  islands  out  of  the 
sea  of  mist.  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  their 
symmetrical  curves,  as  perfect  as  those  of 
Cybele's  breasts. 

Farther  on  the  road  straggled  across  a 
plain,  the  ample  undulations  of  which  re- 
minded one  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  ocean  on 
days  when  there  is  a  swell.  In  every  direction 
it  was  studded  with  wheat  sheaves,  but  there 
were  few  trees  except  an  occasional  group  or 


72  MY  -75 

line  of  poplars  welded  together  by  the  fog  in  an 
indistinct  mass  of  dark  green  foliage. 
Not  a  sound  of  battle  was  to  be  heard. 

On  the  way  we  fell  in  with  some  baggage- 
trains  and  ambulances,  and  learnt  from  their 
drivers  that  the  enemy  was  still  far  away. 

Nevertheless  the  country  had  already  been 
prepared  for  battle.  A  farmhouse  by  the 
roadside  had  been  fortified,  the  windows 
barricaded  with  mattresses  and  small  trusses 
of  straw,  while  a  few  loopholes  had  been 
knocked  in  the  garden  wall.  The  fields  were 
furrowed  with  trenches  as  far  as  the  edge  of  a 
wood,  where  some  abatis  had  been  set  up. 
Earthworks  had  been  thrown  up  along  the 
sides  of  the  road,  and  in  front  were  heaped 
ladders,  a  couple  of  harrows,  a  plough,  a 
roller,  and  several  bundles  of  straw.  Two 
carts  had  been  placed  athwart  the  road,  but 
they  had  been  pushed  one  to  each  side  and 
lay  thrown  back  with  their  long  shafts  pointing 
upwards. 

We  still  rolled  on  across  this  desolate 
country.  So  similar  were  its  aspects  that  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  we  were  not  advancing 
at  all. 

At  last  the  fog  lifted,  and,  suddenly,  before 
we  were  able  to  guess  that  the  end  of  the 


APPROACH  MARCHES  73 

dreary  scenery  was  near,  a  magnificent  view 
opened  out  before  us  as  if  by  enchantment. 
We  were  on  the  crest  of  a  hill  between  two 
valleys,  on  one  side  of  which  thick  woods 
descended  in  leafy  terraces  to  the  hollow  of  a 
narrow  dell  in  which,  through  a  meadow  of 
vivid  emerald  green,  a  little  black  river 
trickled  on  its  way.  The  forests  surrounding 
this  meadow,  as  if  placed  there  in  order  to 
embellish  and  enhance  its  beauty,  looked  like 
a  magnificent  ruff  of  low-toned  olive  tints. 
In  front  of  us,  just  where  the  road  turned  off  at 
an  angle,  a  spur  of  woodland  rose  with  the 
forbidding  aspect  of  a  fortress.  On  the  right, 
forming  a  contrast  to  the  quiet  and  peaceful 
little  river,  a  broad  valley,  with  symmetrical 
slopes  lightened  here  and  there  by  corn  stand- 
ing yellow  in  the  sun,  opened  out  wide  and 
invitingly.  The  river  flowing  through  it  was 
hardly  visible,  but  the  roads,  villages,  and  the 
railway  line  were  quite  distinct.  On  the  one 
hand  lay  Velosnes,  and  on  the  other  Torgny, 
their  white  walls  and  red  roofs  showing  up  on 
the  green  background  of  the  fields. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  scene  to  suggest 
that  war  was  on  foot,  and  gun-shots  heard 
from  a  distance  were  no  more  startling  than 
the  noise  of  carriage  wheels. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  to  which  the  mist, 


74  MY  -75 

softening  the  outlines  of  the  landscape,  lent 
additional  charm.  The  narrow  S-shaped  road 
we  were  following  plunged  into  the  valley. 
The  horses  made  efforts  to  keep  back  the  guns, 
and  especially  the  ammunition  wagons,  which 
were  pushing  them  down  the  slope.  Their 
shoes  slipping  with  the  dislodged  stones, 
they  braced  their  backs  'and  felt  their  way 
cautiously. 

The  *river  at  this  point  constituted  the 
frontier  between  France  and  Belgium.  A 
custom-house  official  was  leaning  up  against  the 
parapet  of  the  bridge. 

One  of  the  men  called  out  to  him : 

"No  fine  linen  or  lace  to-day,  old  man!" 

And  another: 

"Suppose  there's  no  duty  on  melinite,  is 
there?" 

The  official  grinned. 

The  first  Belgian  village,  Torgny,  afforded 
a  contrast  to  the  French  hamlets  through 
which  we  had  been  passing  since  dawn.  Our 
villages  are  tumble-down,  dirty,  and  redolent 
of  manure  and  misery.  Torgny,  on  the 
contrary,  was  clean  and  bright,  the  windows 
of  the  houses  boasting  not  only  curtains  but 
even,  sometimes,  embroidered  shades,  while 
the  shutters,  doors,  and  window-joists  were 
painted  light  green. 


APPROACH  MARCHES  75 

On  all  sides  we  were  greeted  with  smiles  by 
the  placid  and  open-faced  villagers.  Through 
the  windows  of  the  cottages  we  could  see  red 
tiled  floors,  and  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the 
interiors  the  glow  of  brasswork  on  stoves  and 
lamps  reflected  by  carefully  polished  furniture. 

Our  column  halted  in  the  village,  the  men 
carefully  wedging  the  wheels  of  the  vehicles 
to  prevent  them  from  backing  down  the  slope. 
A  woman  and  a  fair,  slightly  built  girl  were 
sitting  in  front  of  their  house,  of  which  the 
lower  half  was  a  mass  of  wistaria.  We 
asked  them  where  the  road  led  to,  and  a 
conversation  began  in  which  not  only  mother 
and  daughter  took  part,  but  also  the  grand- 
mother, a  wizened  little  woman  with  a 
wrinkled  face  out  of  which  peered  a  pair  of 
bright  brown  eyes;  she  had  come  out  to  see 
what  was  happening.  They  talked  with  a 
drawling  sing-song  accent,  which  nevertheless 
was  in  no  way  disagreeable  to  our  ears. 

"Have  the  Germans  come  as  far  as  this?" 

"Yes,  they've  come,  only  they  didn't  do 
any  harm.  .  .  .  They  hadn't  the  time.  Five 
or  six  of  them  came  down  from  the  woods  up 
there — cavalrymen.  But  they  went  back 
almost  at  once.  Some  of  the  villagers  saw 
them.  There  were  also  some  French  cavalry 
here,  in  blue  and  red  uniforms." 


76  MY  -75 

"Chasseurs?" 

*CI  suppose  so.  They  are  so  nice  and 
polite.  ...  At  first,  as  there  weren't  many 
of  them,  we  almost  quarrelled  as  to  who 
should  have  them.  When  the  Uhlans  came 
out  of  the  woods  they  saw  the  French  and 
went  in  again." 

"And  the  Belgian  soldiers?" 

"Not  seen  any  of  them,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"But  my  granddaughter  saw  some  at  Arlon 
last  year." 

"Yes,"  chimed  in  the  girl,  "and  they  are 
better  dressed  than  you." 

We  prepared  to  make  ourselves  comfortable 
in  the  chairs  which  had  been  brought  out  for  us, 
and  chatted  while  waiting  for  the  order  to 
advance. 

"You  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  us," 
said  the  grandmother.  "We  stopped  them, 
and  they  hadn't  reckoned  on  that!  They 
thought  we  were  sheep  and  found  we  were 
lions — yes,  lions!  They  even  say  so  them- 
selves!" 

We  willingly  acquiesced. 

In  future  we  shall  always  be  able  to  count 
upon  the  goodwill  of  the  Belgians,  for  we  owe 
them  a  debt  of  gratitude.  There  is  no  more 
solid  basis  for  affection  than  that  which  under- 
lies the  feelings  of  a  benefactor  towards  his 


APPROACH  MARCHES  77 

protege.  Nothing  is  more  soothing  to  the 
spirit  than  a  sense  of  superiority  and  legitimate 
pride. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  the  blood 
so  bravely  shed  for  us  in  Belgium  will  be  pro- 
ductive of  more  friendship  than  twenty  years 
of  sustained  efforts  to  maintain  the  French 
language  and  culture  against  the  rising  tide  of 
Germanisation.  And,  forty  years  later,  when 
we  meet  a  Belgian,  we  may  be  sure  that  he  will 
remind  us,  in  his  pleasing  accent: 

"Yes,    but    you    know  .  .  .  without    us    in 


It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  him  to  recall  all 
that  France  owes  to  his  glorious  little  country. 
More,  he  will  be  grateful  to  us  for  the  debt  we 
owe  her. 

"Oh,  of  course  it  has  cost  us  a  lot  to  defend 
our  neutrality,"  said  the  old  woman.  "It  is 
awful  what  the  Germans  have  done  in  our 
country.  They  seem  to  have  a  special  hatred 
for  the  women.  There  was  one  down  there. 
.  .  .  We  knew  her  quite  well.  .  .  .  And  they 
first  cut  off  her  breasts  .  .  .  and  then  dis- 
embowelled her.  .  .  .  And  they've  done  that 
to  countless  others  !  Oh  !  it's  too  awful  ! 
They  must  be  worse  than  savages.  You 
must  tell  your  people  about  it,  when  you  get 
back  —  about  that,  and  about  everything  else 


78  MY  -75 

we've  had  to  suffer.     But  you  won't  do  the 

same    when    you    get     into     Germany,     will 

you?" 

She  added: 

"I  am  very  old — over  seventy — and  I  had 
never  seen  war  in  Belgium." 

The  poor  old  woman  spoke  almost  without 
anger,  but  in  a  trembling  voice  and  with  infinite 
sadness. 

We  encamped  at  Torgny.  As  soon  as  the 
horses  had  been  picketed  and  the  oats  distrib- 
uted, Deprez  and  I  hurried  to  the  wistaria 
windows  to  ask  if  we  could  buy  a  little  milk 
and  some  eggs.  The  old  woman  was  most  up- 
set; it  seemed  that  she  had  already  given  every- 
thing to  the  Chasseurs.  But  she  sent  us  a  little 
farther  on  to  the  house  of  one  of  her  daughters 
who,  she  said,  would  milk  the  cow  for  us.  She 
added: 

"We've  a  good  loft  here,  where  you  would 
be  quite  comfortable  and  warm  in  the  straw. 
So  come  back  to  sleep  in  any  case." 

We  knocked  at  the  door  she  had  pointed  out 
to  us  a  couple  of  houses  farther  on,  and  were 
received  as  though  we  had  been  expected. 

"It's  some  artillerymen,  mother,"  said  a 
young  woman,  who  was  nursing  a  child  in  her 
arms.  "They  want  some  milk." 

Her  mother  came  out  of  the  next  room. 


APPROACH  MARCHES  79 

"I'll  go  and  milk  the  cow,"  said  she.  "Good 
evening,  messieurs;  please  sit  down;  you  must 
be  tired." 

Lucas  had  somehow  managed  to  find  some 
eggs. 

"Shall  we  make  you  an  omelette  with  bacon?" 
asked  the  daughter.  "It  won't  take  long.  But 
do  sit  down.  I'm  sure  you've  been  standing 
about  enough  to-day!" 

Almost  immediately  the  fat  began  to  sizzle 
in  the  pan. 

At  every  moment  infantrymen  and  Chasseurs 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  the  two  women  dis- 
tributed the  milk  from  their  cow,  refusing  all 
payment.  When  there  was  no  more  left  they 
were  quite  wretched  at  having  to  disappoint  the 
men  who  continually  arrived  on  various 
quests. 

"We've  given  all  we  had.  I'm  so  sorry!" 
they  said.  "We've  only  a  small  bowl  left 
for  the  baby.  You  see,  we've  only  one 
cow!" 

A  Chasseur  brought  back  a  kettle  he  had 
borrowed;  another  asked  for  the  loan  of  a  grid- 
iron. Never  has  Frenchman  been  more  warmly 
welcomed  in  France. 

The  fair-haired  girl,  with  whom  we  had  been 
talking  shortly  before,  came  back  carrying  an 
earthenware  milk-jug  in  her  hand. 


So  MY  -75 

"Have  you  any  milk,  auntie?  There  are 
some  soldiers  who  want  a  little.  They're  ill, 
some  of  them." 

"Oh,  darling,  I'm  so  sorry!  There  are  only 
a  few  drops  left  for  baby!" 

"Oh,  dear!  .  .  ." 

The  girl  saw  us  seated  at  table  round  the 
smoking  omelette,  and  smiled  at  us  as  though 
we  were  old  acquaintances.  I  told  her  that  if 
I  ever  returned  home  I  should  perhaps  write 
a  book  about  what  I  had  seen  in  the  war. 

"And  will  you  please  tell  me  your  name,  so 
that  I  can  send  you  the  book  as  a  souvenir  to 
you  and  your  family.  You  have  all  been  so 
good  to  us  Frenchmen." 

"My  name  is  Aline — Aline  Badureau." 

"What  a  pretty  name — Aline  I" 

She  prepared  to  go. 

"I  hope  that  you  will  return  home,"  she  said 
to  me,  "so  that  you  can  send  us  your  book.  But 
I'm  sure  you'll  forget.  They  say  that  French- 
men forget  very  soon." 

I  protested  vehemently. 


III.  THE  ATTACK.  THE  RETREAT 

Saturday,  August  22 

WE  slept  in  the  barn  which  the  kindly 
old  woman  had  placed  at  our  disposal, 
and  in  which  the  hay  was  deep  and  warm.  At 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  one  of  the  stable 
pickets  came  to  call  us  through  the  window. 
We  harnessed  our  horses  as  best  we  could  in 
the  darkness. 

An  extremely  diffused  light  was  beginning  to 
spread  over  the  countryside,  and  the  mist,  ris- 
ing from  the  meadows,  dimmed  the  clearness  of 
the  dawn.  We  marched  on  through  the  pow- 
dery atmosphere.  The  fog  was  so  thick  that 
it  was  impossible  to  see  the  carriage  immedi- 
ately ahead,  and  from  our  places  on  the  limber- 
boxes  the  lead  driver  and  his  horses  looked  like 
a  sort  of  moving  shadow. 

Eventually  we  reached  the  little  town  of 
Virton.  All  the  inhabitants  were  at  their 
doors,  and  offered  us  coffee,  milk,  tobacco,  and 
cigars.  The  men  jumped  off  the  limbers  and 
hurriedly  drank  the  steaming  drinks  poured 
out  for  them  by  the  women,  while  the  drivers, 

8l 


82  MY  .75 

bending  down  from  their  horses,  held  out  their 

drinking-tins. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Germans?"  we  asked. 

"Only  one  or  two  came  to  buy  some  socks  and 
some  sugar.  I  hope  they  won't  all  come  here. 
Will  they?" 

"Aren't  we  here  to  prevent  them?;' 

The  women's  open  faces,  framed  in  their 
dark  brown  hair,  were  perfectly  calm.  Fat 
little  children,  like  cherubs  sprung  to  life  from 
some  canvas  of  Rubens,  ran  by  the  side  of 
the  column  as  we  moved  on,  and  others,  a 
little  bigger,  kept  crying:  "Hurrah  for  the 
French!" 

Our  batteries  joined  up  behind  a  group  of 
the  26th  Artillery  on  the  Ethe  road — a  fine 
straight  highway,  flanked  by  tall  trees.  In  the 
fog  the  sheaves  in  the  fields  looked  so  much 
like  infantry  that  for  a  moment  one  was  de- 
ceived. A  few  ambulances  were  installed  in 
one  of  the  villages.  A  little  farther  on  some 
mules,  saddled  with  their  cacolets,  were  waiting 
at  the  end  of  a  sunken  road. 

We  had  hardly  passed  the  last  houses  when 
suddenly  rifle-fire  broke  out  with  a  sound  like 
that  of  dry  wood  burning.  A  machine-gun 
also  began  to  crackle,  staccato,  like  a  cinema 
apparatus. 

Fighting  was  going  on  quite  close,  both  in 


THE  ATTACK  83 

front  of  us  and  also  to  the  right,  somewhere  in 
the  fog.  I  listened,  at  every  moment  expecting 
to  hear  the  hum  of  a  bullet. 

"About  turn!" 

"Trot!" 

What  had  happened?  Where  were  the 
batteries  which  had  preceded  us?  We  turned 
off  to  the  right.  The  firing  ceased.  The 
march  in  the  fog,  which  kept  getting  thicker, 
became  harassing  after  a  while.  At  all  events 
we  were  sure,  now,  that  the  enemy  was  not 
far  off. 

Finally,  at  about  seven  o'clock,  we  halted. 
Not  a  sound  of  the  battle  was  to  be  heard.  We 
unbridled  our  horses  and  gave  them  some  oats. 
The  men  lay  down  by  the  side  of  the  road  and 
dozed. 

Suddenly  the  fusillade  broke  out  again,  but 
this  time  on  the  left.  I  asked  myself  how  our 
position  could  have  altered  so  in  relation  to 
that  of  the  enemy.  A  few  minutes  ago  the 
fighting  was  on  our  right.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
a  patrol  which  had  gone  astray.  I  gave  up 
thinking  about  it.  Doubtless  the  fog  had  con- 
fused my  sense  of  direction. 

This  time  the  firing  sounded  more  distant. 
A  single  detonation,  like  a  signal,  was  heard. 
I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  one  of  the  drivers 
whipping  up  his  team,  but  a  minute  later  the 


84  MY  -75 

crackling  of  rifles  broke  on  our  ears  in  gusts, 
as  if  carried  by  a  high  wind.  And  yet  the  air 
was  quite  still,  and  the  fog  floated,  motionless, 
on  all  sides. 

Suddenly  the  sun  broke  through  and  the  mists 
disappeared  as  if  by  magic,  like  large  gauze 
curtains  rapidly  lifted.  In  a  few  moments  the 
whole  stretch  of  countryside  became  visible.  The 
cannonade  began  at  once. 

On  the  right  were  some  meadows  in  which 
flocks  were  feeding,  and,  farther  on,  a  line  of 
wooded  hills,  in  the  lap  of  which  nestled  a  tiny 
village. 

On  the  left  and  towards  the  north  the  horizon 
was  hidden  by  a  semicircle  of  hills  through 
which  a  river  wound  its  tortuous  course,  drain- 
ing the  stubble-fields  on  either  side.  A  large, 
bowl-shaped  willow-tree  made  a  solitary  green 
blotch  on  the  background. 

A  battery  was  evidently  already  installed 
there,  four  dark  points  indicating  the  position 
of  the  four  guns.  As  we  stood  waiting  on  the 
straight  road,  the  perspective  of  which  was  ac- 
centuated by  the  trees  flanking  it  on  each  side, 
the  twelve  batteries  of  our  regiment,  followed 
by  their  first  lines  of  wagons,  formed  an  in- 
terminable and  motionless  black  line. 

The  Captain  gave  the  order: 

"Prepare  for  action!" 


THE  ATTACK  85 

The  gun-numbers  who  had  been  lying  beneath 
the  trees  jumped  to  their  feet  and  took  off  the 
breech-  and  muzzle-covers  which  protect  the 
guns  from  dust  when  on  the  road.  This  done, 
they  got  the  sighting-gear  ready,  and  saw  that 
the  training  and  elevating  levers  were  in  good 
working  order. 

We  were  surprised  in  our  work  by  an 
explosion  quite  near  at  hand.  Above  the 
stubble-fields  a  small  white  cloud  was  floating 
upwards.  It  expanded,  and  then  disappeared. 
And  suddenly,  near  the  bowl-shaped  willow- 
tree,  six  shrapnel  shells  burst,  one  after 
another. 

I  felt  an  odd  sensation,  as  if  my  circulation 
was  growing  slower.  But  I  was  not  afraid. 
For  the  matter  of  that,  no  immediate  danger 
threatened  us.  Only  I  had  an  intuition  that 
a  big  battle  was  about  to  begin,  and  that  I 
should  have  to  make  a  great  effort. 

The  gunners  anxiously  riveted  their  eyes  on 
a  point  of  the  horizon  where  shells  were  now 
falling  almost  incessantly.  Of  course  none  of 
them  would  have  confessed  to  their  anxiety, 
but  there  was  a  significant  lull  in  the  conversa- 
tion. I  do  not  know  what  we  were  waiting 
for — whether  the  fall  of  a  shell  or  the  arrival 
of  orders. 

For  my  part  I  excused  myself  for  feeling 


86  MY  -75 

apprehensive.     The  baptism  of  fire  is  always 

an  ordeal,  and  the  motionless  waiting  on  the 

road  had  worked  on  my  nerves.     The  enemy 

need  only  have  lifted  his  fire  in  order  to  hit 

us  as  we  stood  there,  defenceless,  in  column 

formation. 

Besides,  such  emotions  are  only  skin-deep. 
Even  if  anxiety  could  plainly  be  read  in  every 
'man's  face  we  still  kept  smiling  and  inwardly 
resolved  to  do  whatever  might  be  necessary  in 
order  to  make  the  coming  battle  a  French 
victory. 

The  Colonel  passed  by,  accompanied  by  Cap- 
tain Manoury  and  a  Staff  of  Lieutenants.  He 
gave  us  a  quiet  but  searching  look,  which  seemed 
to  gauge  our  mettle  and  encourage  us  at  the 
same  time.  The  small  group  of  horsemen  made 
off  rapidly,  ascending  the  slopes  which  were 
being  bombarded  by  the  enemy. 

"Attention  I" 

We  were  going  into  action. 

On  the  side  of  the  horseshoe-shaped  ring  of 
hills  sections  of  infantry  were  deploying  and 
advancing  by  successive  rushes.  Of  a  sudden 
men  rose  up  and  ran  across  the  fields,  and 
again  as  suddenly,  at  an  inaudible  word  of 
command,  threw  themselves  down,  disappear- 
ing from  view  like  so  many  rabbits.  They 
went  on  farther  and  farther,  and  at  last:  we 


THE  ATTACK  87 

saw  their  outlines  silhouetted  against  the  sky- 
line as  they  crossed  the  ridge  of  the  hilL 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock,  and  very  hot. 
From  the  unknown  country  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hills  came  the  awe-inspiring  roar  of 
battle.  The  rifle-fire  crackled  continuously 
and  the  noise  of  the  machine-guns  sounded  like 
waves  beating  against  the  rocks.  The  thunder 
of  the  heavy  guns  drowned,  so  to  speak,  the* 
general  din,  and  blended  it  into  a  single  roar, 
similar  to  that  of  the  ocean  in  a  storm,  when 
the  waves  gather  and  break  with  dull  thuds 
amid  the  shriek  of  the  wind  as  it  lashes  the 
waters. 

The  battle-line  seemed  to  lie  from  east  to 
west,  the  Germans  holding  the  north  and  the 
French  the  south. 

"Forward!" 

First  we  had  to  cross  a  meadow  traversed 
by  a  stream  almost  hidden  in  the  high  grass. 
The  gunners  took  the  off-horses  by  the  bridle 
and  urged  them  forward,  while  the  drivers 
whipped  up  their  teams  into  a  trot.  The 
ground  gave  under  the  wheels  of  the  ammuni- 
tion wagon  as  it  suddenly  proved  too  much  for 
the  horses  and  sank  heavily  up  to  the  axle  in 
the  mud.  It  was  eventually  dislodged  by  some 
strong  collar-work. 

Where  on  earth  were  we  going  to?     We 


8  MY  -75 

seemed  to  be  bound  for  the  bowl-shaped  wil- 
low-tree, near  the  heights  from  which  the  Ger- 
man machine-guns,  for  more  than  two  hours, 
had  been  riddling  every  square  inch  of  ground. 
Why  were  we  being  sent  there?  Were  there 
not  plenty  of  excellent  positions  on  the  hills? 
We  should  inevitably  be  massacred!  But  still 
the  column  advanced  at  a  walking  pace  towards 
the  sloping  field  in  which  shells  were  falling  at 
every  moment. 

Why?  WThy?  Death  had  reigned  supreme 
there  ever  since  the  fog  lifted.  We  were  riding 
into  the  Valley.  .  .  . 

I  felt  a  choking  sensation  grip  my  throat. 
And  yet  I  was  still  capable  of  reasoning.  I 
understood  quite  clearly  that  the  hour  was  come 
for  me  to  sacrifice  my  life.  All  of  us  would 
go  up,  yes! — but  few  would  come  back  down 
the  hill! 

This  combination  of  animality  and  thought 
which  constitutes  my  life  would  shortly  cease 
to  be.  My  bleeding  body  would  lie  stretched 
out  on  the  field;  I  seemed  to  see  it.  A  curtain 
seemed  to  fall  on  the  perspectives  of  the  future 
which  a  moment  ago  still  seemed  full  of  sun- 
shine. It  was  the  end.  It  had  not  been  long 
in  coming,  for  I  am  only  twenty-one. 

Not  for  an  instant  did  I  argue  with  myself 
or  hesitate.  My  destiny  had  to  be  sacrificed 


THE  ATTACK  89 

for  the  fulfilment  of  higher  destinies — for  the 
life  of  my  country,  of  everything  I  love,  of  all 
I  regretted  at  that  moment.  If  I  was  to  die, 
well  and  good!  I  was  willing.  I  should  almost 
have  thought  that  it  was  harder!  .  .  . 

We  continued  to  advance  at  a  walking  pace, 
the  drivers  on  foot  at  their  horses'  heads. 
Presently  we  reached  the  willow-tree.  A 
volley.  .  .  .  From  far  off  came  a  sound  at 
first  resembling  the  whirr  of  wings  or  the 
rustle  of  a  silken  skirt,  but  which  rapidly 
developed  into  a  droning  hum  like  that  of 
hundreds  of  hornets  in  flight.  The  shell  was 
coming  straight  at  us,  and  the  sensation  one 
then  experiences  is  indescribable.  The  air 
twangs  and  vibrates,  and  the  vibrations  seem 
to  be  communicated  to  one's  flesh  and  nerves 
— almost  to  the  marrow  of  one's  bones.  The 
detachment  crouched  down  by  the  wheels  of 
the  ammunition  wagon  and  the  drivers  shel- 
tered behind  their  horses.  At  every  moment 
we  expected  an  explosion.  One,  two,  three 
seconds  passed — an  hour.  The  instinct  of 
self-preservation  strong  within  me,  I  bent  my 
shoulders  and  waited,  trembling  like  an  animal 
flinching  from  death.  A  flash!  It  seemed  to 
fall  at  my  feet.  Shrapnel  bullets  whistled  by 
like  an  angry  wind. 

But  the  column  still  remained  motionless  in 


90  MY  -75 

the  potato-field,  which  was  so  riddled  by  gun- 
fire that  it  was  difficult  to  steer  the  vehicles 
between  the  shell  craters. 

Why  were  we  waiting?  How  we  wished 
that  we  could  at  least  take  up  a  position  and 
reply  to  the  enemy's  fire !  It  seemed  to  me 
that  if  only  we  could  hear  the  roar  of  our  -75's 
the  dread  of  those  deathly  moments  would 
become  less  intense.  But  we  seemed  to  be 
merely  awaiting  slaughter;  the  minutes 
dragged  by  and  we  still  remained  motionless. 

Some  shells,  which  for  a  moment  I  thought 
had  actually  grazed  the  limber,  hurtled  by  and 
shook  me  from  head  to  foot,  making  the  armour 
behind  which  I  was  sheltering  vibrate.  Fortu- 
nately the  ground  was  considerably  inclined, 
and  the  projectiles  burst  farther  back.  I  per- 
spired with  fear.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  was  badly  fright- 
ened. Nevertheless  I  knew  that  I  should  not 
run  away,  and  that  I  should,  if  necessary,  let 
myself  be  killed  at  my  post.  But  the 
longing  for  action  grew  more  and  more 
insistent. 

At  last  we  started  off  again,  progressing  with 
difficulty  across  the  furrowed  field.  The  drivers 
could  hardly  manage  their  horses,  which  had 
been  seized  with  panic  and  pulled  in  all  direc- 
tions. 

Hutin  gave  me  a  nod: 


THE  ATTACK  91 

"You  are  quite  green,  old  chap !"  he  said. 

"Well,  if  you  could  see  your  own  face  .  .  ." 
I  answered. 

A  shell  fell,  throwing  up  a  quantity  of  earth 
in  front  of  the  horses  and  wounding  the  centre 
driver  of  the  ammunition  wagon  in  the  head. 
He  toppled  and  fell. 

"Forward!" 

Near  the  crest  of  the  hill  we  took  up  our 
position  on  the  edge  of  an  oat-field.  The 
limbers  went  off  to  the  rear  to  shelter  some- 
where in  the  direction  of  Latour,  the  steeple  of 
which  could  be  seen  overtopping  the  trees  in 
the  valley  on  our  left.  Crouching  behind  the 
armoured  doors  of  the  ammunition  wagons  and 
behind  the  gun-shields,  we  awaited  the  order 
to  open  fire.  But  the  Captain,  kneeling  down 
among  the  oats  in  front  of  the  battery,  his 
field-glasses  to  his  eyes,  could  discover  no 
target,  for  yonder,  over  the  spreading  woods  of 
Ethe  and  Etalle,  now  occupied  by  the  enemy, 
a  thick  mist  was  still  floating.  All  round  us, 
behind  our  guns,  over  our  heads,  and  without 
respite,  high-explosive  and  shrapnel  shell  of 
every  calibre  kept  bursting  and  strewing  the 
position  with  bullets  and  splinters.  Death 
seemed  inevitable.  Behind  the  gun  was  a 
small  pit  in  which  I  took  refuge  while  we 
waited  for  orders.  A  big  bay  saddle-horse, 


92  MY  -75 

with  a  gash  in  his  chest  from  which  a  red  stream 

flowed,  stood  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the 

field. 

What  with  the  hissing  and  whistling  of  the 
shells,  the  thunder  of  the  enemy's  guns,  and 
the  roar  from  a  neighbouring  -75  battery,  it 
was  impossible  to  distinguish  the  different 
noises  in  this  shrieking  inferno  of  fire,  smoke, 
and  flames.  I  perspired  freely,  my  body 
vibrating  rather  than  trembling.  The  blood 
seethed  in  my  head  and  throbbed  in  my 
temples,  while  it  seemed  as  if  an  iron  girdle 
encircled  my  chest.  Unconsciously,  like  one 
demented,  I  hummed  an  air  we  had  been  sing- 
ing recently  in  the  camp  and  which  haunted 
me. 

Trou  la  la,  ga  ne  va  guere; 

Trou  la  la,  ga  ne  va  pas. 

Was  I  going  to  die  in  this  hole? 

Something  brushed  past  my  back.  At  first  I 
thought  I  was  hit,  but  the  shell  splinter  had  only 
torn  my  breeches. 

The  battery  became  enveloped  in  black, 
nauseating  smoke.  Somebody  was  groaning, 
and  I  got  up  to  see  what  had  happened. 
Through  the  yellow  fog  I  saw  Sergeant 
Thierry  stretched  on  the  ground  and  the  six 
numbers  of  the  detachment  crowding  round 


THE  ATTACK  93 

him.  The  shell  had  burst  under  the  chase  of 
his  gun,  smashing  the  recoil-buffer,  and  effectu- 
ally putting  the  piece  out  of  action. 

Kneeling  side  by  side,  Captain  Bernard  de 
Brisoult  and  Lieutenant  Hely  d'Oissel  were 
scanning  the  horizon  through  their  field-glasses. 
I  admired  them.  The  sight  of  these  two  offi- 
cers, and  of  the  Major  who  was  quietly  strolling 
up  and  down  behind  the  battery,  made  me 
ashamed  to  tremble.  I  passed  through  a  few 
seconds  of  confused  but  intense  mental  suffer- 
ing. Then  it  seemed  as  though  I  was  awaken- 
ing from  a  sort  of  feverish  delirium,  full  of 
horrible  nightmares.  I  was  no  longer  fright- 
ened. And,  when  I  again  took  shelter,  having 
nothing  else  to  do  as  we  were  not  firing,  I  found 
I  had  overcome  my  instincts,  and  no  longer 
shook  with  fear. 

A  horrible  smell  filled  the  pit. 

"Phew!"  I  ejaculated  hoarsely,  "what  a 
stink!" 

Peering  down  I  perceived  Astruc  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hollow.  In  a  voice  which  seemed 
to  come  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  he  re- 
plied: 

"All  right,  old  son !  Don't  you  worry  .  .  „ 
it's  only  me.  I'm  sitting  in  a  filthy  mess  here, 
but  all  the  same  I  wouldn't  give  up  this  place 
for  twenty  francs!" 


94  MY  -75 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill  came  some  infantry 
in  retreat.  The  sound  of  the  machine-guns  ap- 
proached and  eventually  became  distinguishable 
from  the  roar  of  the  artillery. 

The  enemy  was  advancing  and  we  were  giv- 
ing way  before  them.  Shells  continued  to  fly 
over  us,  and  entire  companies  of  infantry  fell 
back. 

The  officers  consulted  together. 

"But  what  are  we  to  do?  .  .  .  There  are  no 
orders  ...  no  orders,"  the  Major  kept  re- 
peating. 

And  still  we  waited.  The  Lieutenant  had 
drawn  his  revolver  and  the  gunners  unslung 
their  rifles.  The  German  batteries,  possibly 
afraid  of  hitting  their  own  troops,  ceased  firing. 
At  any  moment  now  the  enemy  might  set  foot 
on  the  ridge. 

"Limber  up!" 

The  order  was  quickly  carried  out. 

We  had  to  carry  Thierry,  whose  knee  was 
broken,  with  us.  He  was  suffering  horribly  and 
implored  us  not  to  touch  him.  In  spite  of  his 
protests,  however,  three  men  lifted  him  on  to 
the  observation-ladder.  He  was  very  pale,  and 
looked  ready  to  faint. 

"Oh  1"  he  murmured.  "You  are  hurting  me ! 
Can't  you  finish  me?" 

The   rest   of  the   wounded,    five    or   six   in 


THE  RETREAT  95 

number,  hoisted  themselves  without  assistance 
on  to  the  limbers  and  the  battery  swung  down 
the  Latour  road  at  a  quick  trot. 

We  had  lost  the  battle.  I  did  not  know 
why  or  how.  I  had  seen  nothing.  The 
French  right  must  have  had  to  retire  a  con- 
siderable distance,  for,  ahead  to  the  south-east, 
I  saw  shells  bursting  over  the  woods  which 
that  morning  had  been  some  way  behind  our 
lines.  We  were  completely  outflanked,  and  I 
was  seized  with  qualms  as  to  whether  our 
means  of  retreat  were  still  open.  We  crossed 
the  railway,  some  fields,  and  a  river  in  succes- 
sion, and  approached  the  chain  of  hills, 
wooded  half-way  up  their  slopes,  which 
stretched  parallel  to  the  heights  the  army  had 
occupied  in  the  morning.  These  were  doubt- 
less to  be  our  rallying  positions.  The  drivers 
urged  their  horses  onwards  while  the  gunners, 
who  had  dismounted  from  the  limbers  in  order 
to  lighten  the  load,  ran  in  scattered  order  by 
the  side  of  the  column.  The  narrow  road  we 
were  following  was  badly  cut  up,  the  stones 
rolling  from  under  the  horses'  hoofs  at  every 
step.  Half-way  up  the  steep  incline  we  found 
the  way  barred  by  an  infantry  wagon  which 
had  come  to  a  standstill.  A  decrepit  white 
horse  was  struggling  in  the  shafts.  The  driver 


96  MY  -75 

swore  and  hauled  at  the  wheels,  but  the  animal 

could  not  start. 

One  of  the  corporals  shouted  out: 

"Now  then,  get  on,  can't  you?" 

Get  on !  ...  As  if  he  could !  The  driver, 
without  leaving  hold  of  the  wheel  which  he  was 
preventing  from  going  backwards,  turned  a  dis- 
tracted face  towards  us,  almost  crying  with 
baffled  rage. 

"Get  on?    How  am  I  to  get  on?" 

We  lent  him  a  hand  and  succeeded  in  push- 
ing his  wagon  into  the  field  so  that  we  could 
pass. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  heat  was  stifling.  The  battle  seemed 
to  have  come  to  an  end,  and  the  only  gunshots 
audible  came  from  far  away  on  the  left,  near 
Virton  and  St.  Mard. 

The  column  stretched  out  in  a  long  black  line 
on  the  hill-side  as  we  crawled  upwards  through 
the  woods  crowning  the  summit  in  order  to 
find  a  road  by  which  we  might  gain  the  plateau. 
The  horizon  gradually  opened  out  before  us. 
Suddenly,  from  the  direction  of  Latour,  a  ma- 
chine-gun began  to  crackle;  I  hurriedly  lifted 
my  hand  to  my  ear  like  one  who  drives  away 
a  buzzing  wasp. 

"They're  firing  at  us!"  cried  Hutin. 


THE  RETREAT  97 

Bullets  began  to  hum  past.  Machine-guns 
had  opened  fire  on  us  from  the  top  of  the 
positions  we  had  just  vacated.  One  of  the 
horses,  wounded,  fell  to  its  knees  and  was 
promptly  unharnessed.  A  gunner,  shot 
through  the  thigh,  nevertheless  continued  to 
march. 

Close  by,  in  a  valley  where  we  were  sheltered 
from  the  fire,  we  found  a  spot  where  one 
corner  of  the  field  cut  a  wedge  out  of  the  forest. 
Here  we  parked  our  three  batteries  and  waited 
for  orders.  I  saw  at  once  how  critical  our  posi- 
tion was.  There  was  no  road  leading  to  the 
plateau  through  the  wood,  and  several  vehicles 
of  the  loth  Battery,  which  had  ventured  to 
try  a  bridle-path,  soon  found  it  impossible 
either  to  advance  or  go  back.  One  of  the  guns 
had  sunk  up  to  the  axle  in  the  muddy 
ground. 

The  only  means  of  retreat,  therefore,  was  to 
cross  the  bare  fields  on  the  right  or  left  and 
once  again  run  the  gauntlet  not  only  of  the 
machine-guns,  but  also,  perhaps,  of  the  enemy's 
field  artillery,  which  by  now  had  had  time  to 
come  up.  The  longer  we  waited  the  more 
problematical  became  our  chances  of  escaping 
unscathed. 

Besides,  I  could  not  help  wondering  how 
long  the  route  across  the  plateau  was  likely 


98  MY  -75 

to  remain  available.  We  were  already  out- 
flanked, and  in  front  of  us  the  Germans  were 
still  advancing  down  the  crescent-shaped  hills. 
They  had  doubtless  already  occupied  Latour. 

The  Major  still  waited  for  orders.  He  hardly 
spoke  a  word,  but  every  now  and  then  his 
jaws  contracted  spasmodically — a  sign  of 
nervousness  we  soldiers  knew  well.  He  was 
"cracking  nuts,"  as  the  men  say.  He  had  dis- 
patched a  corporal  to  ask  for  instructions,  but 
no  one  knew  where  the  Staff  was  likely  to  be 
found  at  that  hour.  The  army  was  in  full  re- 
treat. 

Eventually  a  dragoon  galloped  up  and  drew 
rein  in  front  of  our  officers.  We  anxiously 
crowded  round  him.  He  brought  information 
that  the  retreat  of  the  army  was  being  effected 
on  the  right  by  the  Ruettes  road.  The  enemy, 
he  said,  had  already  taken  Latour,  and  was  ad- 
vancing towards  Ville-Houdlemont. 

The  column  immediately  leaped  into  life. 
Lieutenant  Hely  d'Oissel,  riding  on  alone 
ahead,  showed  us  the  way.  Again  the 
machine-guns  broke  out  in  the  distance,  but 
this  time  no  bullets  whistled  past  us.  For  a 
few  moments  we  were  stopped  by  a  paling, 
which  we  broke  down  with  our  axes.  The 
open  space  we  had  to  cross  was  short — a 
meadow  capping  the  rising  ground  between  the 


THE  RETREAT  99 

trees.  We  eventually  reached  Ruettes  by  a 
narrow  lane  on  both  sides  of  which  rose  steep 
banks. 

Near  the  church  stood  a  General  without 
any  Staff,  and  accompanied  solely  by  three  Chas- 
seurs. 

The  Tellancourt  road  was  a  veritable  river. 

In  the  breathless  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  re- 
treat we  had  to  make  our  way  through  the 
crowd  by  force.  Such  battalions  as  still  pos- 
sessed their  Majors  went  on  in  front  with  the 
artillery  column.  And,  tossed  about  from  right 
to  left  like  bits  of  cork  in  the  swirl  of  a  cur- 
rent, dragged  this  way  and  that  in  the  eddies, 
sometimes  pushed  into  the  ditch,  and  sometimes 
carried  off  their  feet  by  the  torrent,  the  tattered 
remnants  of  troops  surged  down  the  road. 
Wounded,  limping,  many  without  rifle  or  pack, 
they  made  slow  progress.  Some  made  an  effort 
to  climb  upon  our  carriages,  and  either  hoisted 
themselves  on  to  the  ammunition  wagons  or  let 
themselves  be  dragged  along  like  autom- 
ata. 

While  the  retreat  of  the  infantry  divisions 
continued  along  the  highway,  we  turned  off 
down  a  steep  road  to  the  right  and  reached 
the  plateau.  The  day  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  the  shadow  of  the  thick  woods  at 
Gueville,  between  us  and  the  sun,  was  pro- 


ioo  MY  -75 

jected  on  to  the  side  of  the  next  hill.  Here 
there  was  hardly  anything  but  stragglers  and 
the  ditches  were  full  of  wounded,  resting  for 
a  moment  before  continuing  the  painful  ascent. 
Many  of  them  looked  as  though  they  would 
never  get  up  again.  Some  were  lying  half  hid- 
den in  the  grass. 

There  was  already  something  skull-like  about 
their  faces;  the  eyes,  wide  open  and  bright 
with  fever,  stared  fixedly  from  out  their 
sunken  sockets  as  though  at  something  we 
could  not  see.  Their  matted  hair  was  glued 
to  their  foreheads  with  sweat,  which  slowly 
trickled  down  the  drawn,  emaciated  faces, 
leaving  white  zigzag  furrows  in  the  dirt  of 
dust  and  smoke.  Hardly  one  of  the  wounded 
was  bandaged,  and  the  blood  had  made  dark 
stains  on  their  coats  and  splashed  their  ragged 
uniforms.  Not  a  complaint  was  to  be  heard. 
Two  soldiers,  without  packs  or  rifles,  were 
trying  to  help  a  little  infantryman  whose 
shoulder  had  been  shattered  by  a  shell,  and 
who,  deathly  white  and  with  closed  eyes, 
wearily  but  obstinately  shook  his  head,  refus- 
ing to  be  moved.  Others,  wounded  in  the  leg, 
still  managed  to  hobble  along  with  the  aid  of 
their  rifles,  which  they  used  as  crutches. 
They  implored  us  to  find  place  for  them  on  the 
carriages. 


THE  RETREAT  101 

We  contrived  to  make  room  for  them  on  the 

limbers.    At  every  bump  and  jolt  a  big  bugler, 

whose  chest  had  been  shot  clean  through  by  a 

bullet,  gave  a  gasp  of  pain. 

In  the  fields  by  the  roadside  lay  torn  and 
gaping  packs,  from  which  protruded  vests, 
pants,  caps,  brushes,  and  other  items  of  kit. 
The  road  itself  was  littered  with  boots,  mess- 
tins,  and  camp-kettles  crushed  by  the  wheels 
and  horses'  hoofs,  shirts,  bayonets,  cartridge 
belts  with  the  brass  cases  shining  in  the  dust, 
kepis,  and  broken  Lebel  rifles.  It  was  a  sight 
to  make  one  weep,  and,  despite  myself,  my 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  retreat  of  August, 
1870,  after  Wissembourg  and  Forbach.  .  .  , 
And  yet  for  a  month  past  we  had  heard  con- 
tinually of  French  victories,  and  had  almost  be- 
gun to  picture  Alsace  reconquered  and  the  road 
into  Germany  laid  open.  Nevertheless,  at  the 
first  attack,  here  was  our  army  routed!  With 
some  astonishment  I  realised  that  I  had  taken 
part  in  a  defeat. 

We  reached  the  edge  of  the  Gueville  woods, 
which  were  being  defended  by  the  iO2nd  In- 
fantry. Arms  and  equipment  still  bestrew  the 
road,  which  had  also  been  cut  up  into  ridges  by 
the  artillery  and  convoys.  The  wounded  on  our 
lurching  and  jolting  wagons  looked  like  men 
crucified. 


J02  MY  -75 

I  questioned  the  big  bugler: 

"Shall  we  stop?  Perhaps  this  shakes  you  too 
much?" 

"No!  Anything  rather  than  fall  into  their 
hands." 

"Yes,  but  still  .  .  ." 

"No,  no — that's  all  right." 

And  he  bit  his  lips  to  avoid  crying  out.  I 
was  very  tired,  and  my  head  felt  at  the  same 
time  heavy  and  yet  light.  My  one  desire  was  to 
sleep,  no  matter  where. 

Hardly  were  we  out  of  the  wood  when  the 
battery  halted  in  a  field  full  of  wheat-sheaves 
near  a  village  called  La  Malmaison.  I  threw 
myself  down  on  some  straw.  If  we  stayed  there 
we  should  certainly  not  even  be  able  to  sleep; 
the  enemy  was  too  close,  and  we  should  prob- 
ably be  attacked  at  night.  And  my  one 
thought  was  to  sleep,  to  get  far  enough  away 
to  sleep.  I  waited  for  the  prophetic  order 
''Unharness!"  which  would  leave  us  in  this  field 
to  fight  again  in  an  hour's  time — perhaps  at 
once.  But  other  orders  arrived,  and  off  we 
rumbled  once  more,  through  La  Malmaison, 
which  we  found  congested  with  troops  in  dis- 
order. Nighi:  fell.  I  had  now  reached  the 
extreme  limits  of  fatigue  and  began  to  be  less 
conscious  of  what  was  going  on  around  me. 
As  if  in  a  dream  I  saw  the  men  huddled  on 


THE  RETREAT  103 

the  limber-boxes,  their  heads  rolling  on  their 
shoulders,  and  the  drivers  lurching  from  side 
to  side  on  their  horses  like  drunken  men.  I  still 
seem  to  hear  a  gunner  of  the  26th  Artillery, 
who,  sitting  on  the  ammunition  wagon,  was 
telling  how  the  three  batteries  which  preceded 
us  this  morning  on  the  road  to  Ethe  were 
caught  by  the  German  machine-gun  fire  and 
taken  in  column  formation,  and  how  he  himself 
had  been  able,  thanks  to  the  fog,  to  escape  al- 
most alone. 

We  went  on  through  the  night,  our  wagons 
creaking  and  rattling  with  a  sound  almost  like 
a  sort  of  cannonade.  One  of  the  whips  was 
dragging.  .  .  .  For  a  moment  I  thought  I 
heard  a  machine-gun.  .  .  .  What  an  obses- 
sion! .  .  .  The  column  rolled  on  through  the 
darkness,  the  monotonous  rumble  of  the 
wheels  unbroken  by  an  order  or  word  of  any 
kind. 

About  midnight,  after  a  very  long  march, 
we  again  reached  Torgny,  and  encamped  there. 
The  roll  was  not  even  called.  I  threw  myself 
face-downwards  on  some  hay  in  a  barn,  and  it 
seemed  to  me,  as  I  fell  asleep,  that  I  was 
dying. 

Sunday,  August  23 

This  morning  they  let  us  sleep  until  past 
eight  o'clock.  After  getting  up  we  at  once 


104  -75 

led  our  horses  down  to  the  big  stone  trough  in 
the  middle  of  the  village.  The  church  bells 
were  ringing.  So  there  were  still  Sundays ! 
Somehow  that  seemed  strange!  I  was  still 
sleepy  and  my  numbed  limbs  ached  abomin- 
ably, so  that  it  was  torture  to  get  into  the  sad- 
dle. How  I  longed  for  a  day's  rest! 

As  I  was  returning  to  the  camp,  Deprez  at 
my  side,  we  met  Mademoiselle  Aline,  in  a  light 
pink  dress  of  flowery  pattern,  and  very  .daintily 
shod.  She  was  doubtless  going  to  Mass. 
She  recognised  us  and  waved  her  hand, 
smiling. 

At  the  camp  we  found  them  waiting  for  us. 

"Hurry  up  now!" 

"Bridle!  .  .  .  Hook  in!" 

"What?    Are  we  going  into  action  again?" 

"Seems  like  it.  .  .  .  I  don't  know,"  answered 
Brejard.  "Now  then!" 

The  two  batteries  now  forming  the  Group, 
our  own  and  the  I2th  (the  loth  had  been  taken 
by  the  enemy  in  the  Gueville  woods),  started 
off  along  the  Virton  road.  It  seemed  that  we 
were  never  to  get  a  moment's  respite. 

But  almost  immediately  we  halted  in 
double  column  on  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the 
road.  On  the  hill-side  were  strong  forces  of 
French  artillery  in  position,  the  motionless  bat- 


THE  RETREAT  105 

teries  showing  up  like  black  squares  on  the 
green  slope. 

The  roll  was  called.  One  or  two  were 
missing  from  my  battery.  Baton,  the  centre 
driver  of  the  gun-team,  had  been  wounded  in 
the  head,  and  had  been  left  behind  in  the 
hospital  at  Torgny.  Hubert,  our  gun-com- 
mander, had  disappeared,  and  so  had  Homo, 
another  of  the  drivers.  The  last  time  that  I 
had  seen  Homo  he  was  wandering  across  a  field 
swept  by  the  German  guns,  a  wild  look  in  his 
eyes. 

Lucas,  the  Captain's  cyclist,  was  also  missing, 
and  this  worried  me  especially.  He  is  always 
so  cheerful,  open-hearted,  and  amusing,  and  is 
one  of  my  best  friends. 

There  was  no  news  at  all  of  our  entire  first 
line,  conducted  by  Lieutenant  Couturier.  Stand- 
ing in  a  circle  round  the  Captain  the  detach- 
ments were  reorganised.  The  battery  had  only 
three  guns  left,  and  it  was  necessary  to  send 
to  the  rear  the  one  with  the  broken  hydraulic 
buffer. 

How  tired  I  was !  As  soon  as  I  stayed  still 
I  began  to  fall  asleep. 

Hutin  opened  a  box  of  bully-beef  for  the  two 
of  us. 

"Hungry,  Lintier?" 

"Not   a   bit.  .  .  .  And  yet  I've   not  eaten 


io6  MY  -75 

anything      since      the      day     before      yester- 
day!" 

"Same  here.  Do  you  think  we  shall  have 
any  more  fighting  to-day?" 

"I  suppose  we  shall.  .  .  ." 

Hutin  thought  a  little. 

"There's  only  one  thing  that  astonishes  me," 
said  he,  "and  that  is  to  be  alive  still." 

"Yes,  it  is  wonderful." 

"It's  odd  that  we  don't  hear  the  guns 
to-day." 

"They  don't  seem  to  have  taken  advantage 
of  their  victory  yesterday  in  order  to  advance." 

"Well,"  said  our  gun-layer,  "in  my  opinion 
we've  fallen  into  an  ambuscade.  They  were 
waiting  for  us  there,  and  they  had  got  all  the 
ridges  nicely  registered.  That's  how  they  had 
us !  But  all  that  will  change !" 

"I  hope  so!  Oh,  Lord,  how  tired  I  am! 
And  you?" 

"So  am  I!" 

We  each  ate  without  much  relish  four 
mouthfuls  of  bully-beef  and  shut  the  box  again. 
Besides,  the  column  was  already  beginning  to 
move. 

Striking  across  country  we  reached  Lamort- 
eau,  a  large  village  on  the  banks  of  the  Chiers, 
where  we  encamped  near  the  river  and  waited 
for  orders. 


THE  RETREAT  107 

The  scene  was  soon  brightened  by  smoke 
rising  straight  up  in  the  still  air  of  the  morning, 
which  was  already  hot.  The  men  made  their 
soup  and  the  drivers  went  off  to  draw  water 
for  the  horses,  which  were  not  unharnessed. 

Suddenly,  on  the  bridge  spanning  the  Chiers, 
Lieutenant  Couturier  appeared  at  the  head  of 
his  column,  accompanied  by  Lucas.  The  latter 
ran  up  to  me. 

"At  last!" 

"At  last!" 

"You  devil!     You  did  give  us  a  fright!" 

We  grasped  each  other's  hands,  and  that 
was  all.  But  I  felt  immensely  relieved. 

Hubert  was  also  with  them.  Conversation 
became  lively  round  the  camp-kettles,  in  which 
the  soup  was  already  steaming.  Afterwards, 
no  orders  having  arrived,  we  slept,  and  at 
nightfall  returned  to  Torgny  to  camp  there  once 
more. 

The  Major  ordered  the  horses  to  be  unhar- 
nessed and,  supposing  therefore  that  no 
danger  threatened,  I  stretched  myself  and  gave 
a  yawn  of  satisfaction.  Then  we  bivouacked. 
What  work !  The  guns  are  placed  about  twenty 
yards  apart.  Between  the  wheels  of  two  guns 
are  stretched  the  picket  lines,  and,  when  the 
horses  have  been  tethered  to  them,  and  the 
harness  arranged  on  the  limber  draught- 


io8  MY  -75 

poles,    the    park    ought    to    form    a    regular 

square. 

We  took  off  our  vests,  for  it  was  still  hot. 
Deprez  was  distributing  oats  among  the 
drivers  who  stood  holding  out  the  nosebags. 

Somebody  suddenly  cried  out: 

"An  aeroplane!" 

"A  boche!" 

Right  overhead,  like  a  big  black  hawk  with 
a  forked  tail,  an  aeroplane  was  circling  round 
and  round.  There  was  an  immediate  rush  for 
rifles.  Lying  on  their  backs  in  order  to 
shoulder  their  guns,  and  half  undressed,  their 
open  shirts  showing  hairy  chests,  the  men 
opened  a  brisk  fire  on  the  German  bird  of  prey, 
which  was  flying  low.  The  startled  horses 
neighed,  reared,  and  pulled  this  way  and  that, 
many  breaking  loose  and  galloping  off  across 
the  fields.  The  aeroplane  seemed  to  be  in 
difficulties. 

"She's  hit!" 

"She's  coming  down!" 

"No!  She's  only  going  off!" 

The  men  still  continued  firing,  although  the 
machine  had  been  out  of  range  for  some 
minutes. 

At  the  horse-trough  in  the  only  street  of 
the  village  there  was  always  the  same  crowd 
of  men  taking  their  horses  to  be  watered,  some 


THE  RETREAT  109 

mounted  bareback,  others  led;  the  same 
shouting  and  swearing  to  get  room  at  the 
trough,  greetings  from  those  who  recognised 
each  other,  oaths  from  others  leading  their  ani- 
mals who  were  hustled  by  the  men  on  horse- 
back— in  short,  all  the  life  and  movement  of 
an  artillery  camp.  A  Chasseur,  shouting  pro- 
fanely, forced  his  way  through  the  throng.  He 
was  assailed  with  cries. 

"Here,  you  aren't  in  a  bigger  hurry  than  any 
one  else!" 

"Yes,  I  ami  Get  back  to  camp  quick!  I've 
got  orders!" 

"What's  the  matter  now?" 

"All  you  chaps  have  got  to  clear  off!  No 
time  for  amusement,  this,  you  know;  the  Ger- 
mans are  coming  up.  There'll  be  some  more 
fun  in  a  minute!" 

He  spurred  forward,  and  we  hurried  back  to 
our  guns.  Was  it  a  surprise?  We  limbered  up 
at  full  speed,  and  before  we  had  even  had  time 
to  button  our  shirts  the  first  gun  left  the  park. 

"Forward!     March.  .  .  .  Trot!" 

We  had  thrown  the  nosebags,  still  half  full 
of  oats,  on  the  ammunition  wagons  and  gun- 
carriages,  and  once  on  the  way  it  was  necessary 
to  lash  them  so  that  they  should  not  be  shaken 
off.  Hastily  throwing  on  their  clothing,  the 
men  jumped  on  to  the  limbers  as  best  they 


no  MY  -75 

could,  while  the  battery  moved  forward  at  a 

brisk  pace  on  the  uneven  road. 

We  kept  continually  looking  over  our 
shoulders,  towards  the  hills  on  the  east  domi- 
nated by  Torgny,  from  which  direction  we  ex- 
pected to  see  the  heads  of  the  enemy's  column 
emerge  at  any  minute.  I  momentarily  awaited 
the  crackling  of  a  machine-gun  or  the  scream 
of  a  shell. 

The  road  in  the  distance,  as  it  wound  through 
the  valley,  was  black  with  horses  and  ammu- 
nition wagons  advancing  at  a  trot  and  raising 
thick  clouds  of  dust.  Batteries  were  also  to 
be  seen  rolling  across  country.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  this  sudden  retreat?  The  whole 
day  long  we  had  only  heard  the  guns  from 
far  off,  towards  the  north.  We  had  now  even 
ceased  to  hear  them  altogether.  Had  we  been 
surprised,  then,  or  nearly  surprised?  But  one 
never  knows  what  has  really  happened  on  such 
occasions! 

We  took  up  our  position  on  the  ridge  between 
the  Chiers  and  the  Othain,  where  the  whole 
country,  its  contours  and  colours  continually 
changing  in  the  bright  sunshine,  had  seemed  to 
smile  at  us  upon  our  arrival.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  though  the  memories  awakened  by  the  maj- 
esty and  stillness  of  the  scene  were  deeply 
rooted  in  the  past.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  aged 


THE  RETREAT  in 

ten  years  in  one  day — a  strange  and  painful 
impression. 

Our  guns  were  pointing  towards  Torgny  and 
the  plateau  above  it.  At  any  moment  the  or- 
der might  come  to  bombard  the  unfortunate 
village.  Possibly,  even,  a  shell  from  my  gun 
might  blow  to  bits  the  very  house  which  had 
given  us  shelter,  and  kill  the  woman  whose 
hospitality  had  meant  so  much  to  us!  That 
was  an  awful  thought!  Oh,  this  ghastly 
war! 

But  night  fell,  and  as  yet  the  Captain  had 
seen  no  signs  of  movement  on  the  plateau. 
Behind  us  the  narrow  valley  of  the  Othain  was 
slowly  becoming  shrouded  in  shadows.  The 
limbers  were  stationed  200  yards  from  the 
battery.  All  fires  were  forbidden — even  lan- 
terns might  not  be  lit,  as  our  safety  on  the  mor- 
row might  depend  upon  our  remaining  undis- 
covered. The  night  was  clear,  but  a  thin  mist 
partially  veiled  the  light  of  the  stars,  and 
there  was  no  moon.  Motionless,  and  clustered 
together  in  dark  groups,  the  horses  quietly 
munched  their  oats.  A  far-reaching  reddish 
glow  lit  up  the  eastern  horizon — doubtless  La 
Malmaison  on  fire — and  as  the  darkness 
deepened  other  lights  appeared  on  the  right  and 
left  of  the  main  conflagration.  On  every  side 
the  villages  were  burning.  Against  the  fiery 


ii2  MY  -75 

sky  the  haunches  of  the  horses,  their  heads 

and    twitching    ears,    and    the    heavy    masses 

of    the    guns    and    limbers    stood    out    like 

silhouettes. 

Standing  side  by  side  with  our  arms  folded, 
Hutin  and  I  watched  the  flaming  countryside. 

"Oh,  the  brutes,  the  savages!" 

"So  that's  what  they  call  war,  is  it?" 

And  we  both  lapsed  into  silence,  struck  dumb 
by  the  same  feeling  of  futile  horror,  and  filled 
with  the  same  rage.  I  saw  a  yellow  gleam  pass 
across  the  dark  eyes  of  my  friend — a  reflection 
of  the  holocaust. 

"And  to  think  we  can't  prevent  it!  .  .  5 
That  we're  the  weaker!  Oh,  Lord!" 

"That'll  come  in  time." 

"Yes,  that'll  come  .  .  .  and  then  they'll  pay 
for  it!" 

We  threw  ourselves  down  on  the  straw 
heaped  up  behind  the  guns.  A  searchlight  from 
Verdun  swept  the  country  at  regular  intervals, 
and  the  inky  sky  was  lit  up  by  the  visual  sig- 
nalling. Huddled  together  we  gradually  fell 
asleep,  a  single  sentry,  wrapped  in  his  cloak, 
standing  motionless  on  guard. 

Monday,  August  24 

It  was  still  night  when  I  was  awakened  and 
saw  a  dark  shadow  standing  over  me. 


THE  RETREAT  113 

"Up  you  get!" 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Don't  know,"  answered  the  sentry  who  had 
roused  me.  The  villages  were  still  burning. 
Feeling  our  way,  and  almost  noiselessly,  we 
harnessed  our  teams,  and  the  limbers  came  up. 
A  steep  decline  .  .  .  the  stones  rolled.  In  the 
darkness  the  horses  might  stumble  at  any  mo- 
ment. The  brakes  acted  badly,  and  we  hung 
on  to  the  vehicl.es,  letting  ourselves  be  dragged 
along  in  order  to  relieve  the  wheelers,  which 
were  almost  being  run  over  by  the  heavy  am- 
munition wagon. 

At  early  dawn  we  passed  through  a  slumber- 
ing village.  Stretched  on  the  ground  under 
the  lee  of  the  high  wall  surrounding  the 
church  five  Chasseurs  were  sleeping.  Twisted 
round  one  arm  they  held  the  reins  of  their 
horses,  which,  standing  motionless  beside 
them,  were  also  asleep.  A  pale,  cold  light  was 
breaking  through  the  fog,  which  had  collected 
at  the  bottom  of  the  valley.  It  was  very  cold 
as  we  marched  along  in  silence,  the  men 
snoring  on  the  limber-boxes.  We  were  going 
westwards — retiring,  that  is  to  say.  Why? 
Were  we  not  in  a  good  position  to  wait 
for  the  enemy?  Suddenly  a  silver  sun  shone 


ii4  MY  -75 

through  the  mist,   surrounded  by  a   halo   of 

light. 

After  a  long  halt  in  an  alfalfa-field  manured 
with  stable  refuse,  the  smell  of  which  remained 
in  our  nostrils,  we  took  up  position  on  a  hill 
near  Flassigny.  But  hardly  had  we  done  so 
when  fresh  orders  arrived,  and  we  started  off 
again,  always  towards  the  west.  In  the  space 
between  two  hills  we  caught  sight  of  a  distant 
town — doubtless  Montmedy. 

About  midday  we  halted  in  a  valley  near 
the  river. 

"Dismount!  Unharness  the  off-horses.  Stand 
easy!" 

The  sun  was  burning  hot,  and  not  a  breath 
stirred  in  the  heavy  air.  Our  bottles  only 
contained  a  little  of  the  Othian  water,  brackish 
and  tepid,  but  at  any  rate  it  served  to  wash  in. 
The  men  went  to  sleep  in  the  ditches,  the 
horses  standing  motionless,  exhausted  by  the 
heat. 

The  evening  was  already  advanced  when  our 
Group  received  instructions  to  push  on  to  Mar- 
ville,  presumably  to  camp  there. 

I  recognised  the  place,  for  we  had  passed 
through  Marville  on  our  way  to  Torgny.  At 
that  time  it  was  a  pretty  little  town  with 
flowery  gardens  and  river-side  villas  surrounded 


THE  RETREAT  115 

by  dahlias.  Now,  however,  the  place  was 
deserted.  Large  carts  belonging  to  the  Meuse 
peasantry  were  waiting,  ready  to  start,  piled 
high  with  bedding,  boxes,  and  baskets.  In 
one  of  them  I  caught  sight  of  a  canary-cage 
side  by  side  with  a  perambulator  and  a 
cradle.  Women,  surrounded  by  children,  were 
sitting  on  the  heterogeneous  heap,  crying 
bitterly,  while  the  little  ones  hid  their  heads 
in  their  skirts.  Some  dogs,  impatient  to  be  off, 
were  nosing  uneasily  round  the  wheels  of  the 
carts.  We  asked  these  poor  people  where  they 
were  going. 

"We  don't  know!  They  say  we've  got  to 
go.  ...  And  so  we're  going  .  .  .  and  with 
babies  like  these!" 

And  they  questioned  us  in  their  turn : 

"Which  way  do  you  think  we'd  better  go? 
We  don't  know!" 

Nor  did  we.  Nevertheless,  we  pointed  out  a 
direction. 

"Go  that  way!     Over  there!" 

"Over  there"  was  towards  the  west.  .  .  .  Ohr 
what  misery!  .  .  . 

We  bivouacked  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
Near-by  flowed  a  river,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
which  two  dead  horses  were  lying  in  a.  stubble- 
field. 


n6  MY  -75 

The  Captain  of  the  loth  Battery,  which  we 
had  believed  lost,  arrived  on  horseback  at  the 
camp.  He  told  the  Major  that  in  the  Gueville 
woods  he  had  managed  to  save  his  four  guns, 
but  had  had  to  leave  the  ammunition  wagons 
behind.  His  battery  had  taken  up  position 
somewhere  on  the  hills  surrounding  Marville 
on  the  south-east,  and  he  had  come  to  get 
orders. 

The  rent  made  by  a  shell-splinter  two  days 
previously  in  the  seat  of  my  breeches  was  caus- 
ing me  great  discomfort.  Divided  between 
the  wish  to  patch  it  up  and  the  fear  lest  the 
order  might  come  to  break  up  the  camp  before 
I  had  finished,  I  let  the  quiet  hours  of  the  eve- 
ning pass  without  doing  this  very  necessary 
work. 

Tuesday,  August  25 

I  was  awakened  by  the  sun,  and  stretched 
myself. 

"A  good  night  at  last,  eh,  Hutin?" 

Hutin,  still  asleep,  made  no  answer.  Deprez 
•called  out : 

"Now  then,  oats!" 

Nobody  was  in  a  hurry.  Two  men,  a  con- 
fused mass  of  dark  blue  cloth,  quietly  went  on 
Snoring  amid  the  straw  strewn  under  the  chase 
of  the  gun.  Suddenly  I  thought  I  heard  a 


THE  RETREAT  117 

familiar  sound,  and  instinctively  turned  to  see 
whence  it  came. 

"Down !"  cried  some  one. 

The  men  threw  themselves  down  where  they 
stood.  In  mid-air,  above  the  camp,  a  shell 
burst.  In  the  still  atmosphere  the  compact  cloud 
of  smoke  floated  motionless  among  the  thin 
grey  mists. 

"It's  that  aeroplane  we  saw  yesterday  we've 
got  to  thank  for  that,"  said  Hutin,  who  had 
been  fully  awakened  by  the  explosion. 

"Yes,  but  it  was  too  high." 

"That's  only  a  trial  round  to  find  the  range. 
We  shall  get  it  hot  in  a  few  minutes,  you'll 
see!" 

"Now  then,  bridle !    Hook  in!    Quick!" 

The  camp  at  once  became  full  of  movement, 
the  gunners  hurrying  to  their  horses  and 
limbers.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  picket- 
lines  were  wound  round  the  hooks  behind  the 
limbers,  and  the  teams  were  ready  to  start. 
Again  came  the  whistling  of  an  approaching 
projectile.  The  men  merely  rounded  their 
backs  without  interrupting  their  work.  High- 
explosive  shells  now  began  to  fall  on  Marville, 
and  others,  hurtling  over  our  heads,  swooped 
down  on  the  neighbouring  hills  which  the 
enemy  doubtless  believed  manned  by  French 
artillery.  The  drivers,  leaning  over  their 


n8  MY  -75 

horses'  necks,  whipped  up  the  teams,  and  the 
column  made  off  at  a  trot  to  take  up  positions 
on  the  hills  to  the  west  of  the  town,  which 
dominated  the  Othain  valley  and  the  uplands 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  whence  the 
enemy  was  approaching.  A  veritable  hail  of 
lead,  steel,  and  fire  was  raining  upon  Marville. 
One  of  the  first  shells  struck  the  steeple.  The 
town  was  not  visible  from  our  position,  but 
large  black  columns  of  smoke  were  rising 
perpendicularly  into  the  sky,  and  there  was 
no  doubt  that  the  place  was  in  flames.  Amid 
the  roar  of  the  cannonade,  which  had  now  be- 
come an  incessant  thunder  which  rose,  fell, 
echoed,  and  rolled  without  intermission,  it  was 
difficult  to  distinguish  between  shots  coming 
from  the  enemy's  guns  and  those  fired  from 
ours.  After  a  time,  however,  we  were  able  to 
recognise  the  short  sharp  barks  of  the  .75'$  in 
action. 

"Attention!    Gun-layers,  forward!" 

The  men  hurried  up  to  the  Captain. 

"That  tree  like  a  brush  ...  in  front.  .  .  ." 

"We  see  it,  sir!" 

"That's  your  aiming-point.  Plate  o,  dial 
150." 

The  men  ran  to  the  guns  and  layed  them,  the 
breeches  coming  to  rest  as  they  closed  on  the 
shells.  The  gun-layers  raised  their  hands. 


THE  RETREAT  119 

"Ready!" 

"First  round,"  ordered  the  gun-commander. 

The  detachment  stood  by  outside  the  wheels 
of  the  gun,  the  firing  number  bending  down  to 
seize  the  lanyard. 

"Fire!" 

The  gun  reared  like  a  frightened  horse.  I 
was  shaken  from  head  to  foot,  my  skull  throb- 
bing and  my  ears  tingling  as  though  with  the 
jangle  of  enormous  bells  which  had  been  rung 
close  to  them.  A  long  tongue  of  fire  had  darted 
out  of  the  muzzle,  and  the  wind  caused  by 
the  round  raised  a  cloud  of  dust  round 
us.  The  ground  quaked.  I  noticed  an  un- 
pleasant taste  in  my  mouth — musty  at  first,  and 
acrid  after  a  few  seconds.  That  was  the  pow- 
der. I  hardly  knew  whether  I  tasted  it  or 
whether  I  smelled  it.  We  continued  firing, 
rapidly,  without  stopping,  the  movements  of  the 
men  co-ordinated,  precise,  and  quick.  There 
was  no  talking,  gestures  sufficing  to  control  the 
manoeuvre.  The  only  words  audible  were  the 
range  orders  given  by  the  Captain  and  repeated 
by  the  Nos.  I. 

"Two  thousand  five  hundred!" 

"Fire!" 

"Two  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
five!" 

"Fire!" 


120  MY  -75 

After  the  first  round  the  gun  was  firmly 
settled,  and  the  gun-layer  and  the  firing 
number  now  installed  themselves  on  their 
seats  behind  the  shield.  On  firing,  the  steel 
barrel  of  the  .75  mm.  gun  recoils  on  the  guides 
of  the  hydraulic  buffer,  and  then  quietly  and 
gently  returns  to  battery,  ready  for  the  next 
round.  Behind  the  gun  there  was  soon  a 
heap  of  blackened  cartridge-cases,  still  smok- 
ing. 

"Cease  firing!" 

The  gunners  stretched  themselves  out  on  the 
grass,  and  some  began  to  roll  cigarettes. 

Another  aeroplane;  the  same  black  hawk 
silhouetted  against  the  pale  blue  sky  which  at 
every  moment  was  getting  brighter. 

The  men  swore  and  shook  their  fists.  What 
tyranny !  It  was  marking  us  down ! 

Suddenly  the  enemy's  heavy  artillery  opened 
fire  on  the  hills  we  were  occupying  as  well  as 
on  a  neighbouring  wood.  It  was  time  to 
change  position,  since  for  us  the  most  perilous 
moment  is  when  the  teams  come  up  to  join 
the  guns.  A  battery  is  then  extremely  vulner- 
able. 

Before  the  enemy  could  correct  his  range 
the  Major  gave  an  order  and  we  moved  off 
to  take  up  a  fresh  position  in  a  hollow  on 
the  plain.  The  wide  fields  around  us  were 


THE  RETREAT  121 

bristling  with  stubble,  and  on  the  left  a  few 
poplars,  bordering  a  road,  traced  a  green  line 
on  the  bare  countryside.  In  front  of  us  and 
behind  stretched  empty  trenches.  Marville 
was  still  burning,  the  smoke  blackening  the 
whole  of  the  eastern  sky.  The  sun  was  now 
high  in  the  heavens,  and  poured  a  dazzling 
light  on  the  stubble-fields.  We  were  suffer- 
ing badly  from  hunger  and  thirst.  The  din 
of  the  battle  seemed  continually  to  grow 
louder. 

At  the  foot  of  some  distant  hills,  still  blue  in 
the  mist  on  the  south-eastern  horizon,  the  Cap- 
tain had  perceived  a  column  of  artillery  or  a 
convoy  and  large  masses  of  men  on  the  march. 
Were  they  French  troops,  or  was  it  the  enemy? 
He  was  not  sure.  The  mist  and  the  dis- 
tance made  it  impossible  to  recognise  the  uni- 
forms. 

"We  can't  fire  if  those  are  French  troops," 
said  he. 

Standing  on  an  ammunition  wagon  he 
scanned  the  threatening  horizon  through  his 
field-glasses. 

"If  it's  the  enemy,  they  are  outflanking  us  ... 
outflanking  us!  They'll  be  in  the  woods  in  a 
moment.  .  .  .  We  shan't  be  able  to  see  them. 
.  .  .  Go  and  ask  the  Major." 

The  Major  was  no  better  informed  than  the 


122  MY  -75 

Captain,  the  orders  he  had  received  saying 
nothing  about  these  hills.  He  also  was  using 
his  field-glasses,  but  could  not  distinguish  the 
uniforms  of  the  moving  masses.  In  his  turn 
he  muttered: 

"If  it's  the  enemy  they're  surrounding  us!" 

A  mounted  scout  was  hastily  dispatched.  We 
remained  in  suspense,  a  prey  to  nervous  excite- 
ment. 

A  single  foot-soldier  had  stopped  near  the 
fourth  gun.  He  had  neither  pack  nor  rifle.  We 
questioned  him  : 

"Wounded?" 

"No." 

"Where  have  you  come  from?" 

The  Captain  signalled  for  the  man  to  be 
taken  to  him.  The  soldier,  who  had  thrown 
away  his  arms,  did  not  hurry  to  obey. 

"What  are  those  troops  down  there?"  asked 
the  Captain.  "French?" 

"I  don't  know!" 

"Well,  where  do  you  come  from?" 

The  soldier  waved  his  arm  with  a  vague, 
comprehensive  gesture  which  embraced  half  the 
horizon. 

"From  over  there!" 

The  Captain  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Yes,  but  where  are  the  Germans?    Do  you 


THE  RETREAT  123 

know  whether  they  have  turned  Marville  on  the 
south?" 

"No,  sir.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  was  in  a  trench. 
.  .  .  And  the  shells  began  to  come  along — 
great  big  black  ones.  .  .  .  First  they  burst  be- 
hind us,  a  hundred  yards  or  more.  .  .  .  Then, 
of  course,  we  didn't  mind  'em.  But  soon 
some  of  them  fell  right  on  us  ...  and  then 
we  ran!" 

"But  your  officers?" 

The  man  made  a  sign  of  ignorance.  Nothing 
more  could  be  got  out  of  him.  Just  at  that 
moment  a  shell  came  hissing  through  the  air, 
and  he  at  once  made  off  at  full  speed,  crouching 
as  he  ran.  A  few  dislocated  words  came  back 
to  us  over  his  shoulder : 

"Ah I     Bon  Dieu  de  bon  Dieu!" 

The  shell  burst  on  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
and  the  moment  after  three  others  exploded 
nearer  still.  The  Captain  had  not  ceased  to 
follow  through  his  glasses  the  doubtful  troops 
which,  by  now,  had  nearly  reached  the  woods. 
We  waited  anxiously,  standing  in  a  circle  round 
him. 

"I  believe  they're  French,"  said  he.  "Here, 
Lintier,  have  a  look.  You've  got  good 
eyes." 

Through  the  glasses  I  was  able  to  distinguish 
the  red  of  the  breeches. 


124  MY  -75 

"Yes,  they're  French,  sir.  But  where  are 
they  going  to?" 

The  Captain  made  no  reply,  and  I  under- 
stood that  once  again  our  army  was  in  retreat. 

A  shower  of  shells  poured  down  on  the  field 
behind  us. 

The  enemy's  fire,  too  much  to  the  left  and 
too  high  at  first,  was  getting  nearer,  and  was 
now  corrected  as  far  as  training  went.  Our 
lives  depended  on  the  whim  of  a  Prussian  Cap- 
tain and  a  slight  correction  for  elevation. 

Just  at  that  moment  some  sections  of  in- 
fantry suddenly  appeared  on  the  edge  of  the 
plateau  and  hurriedly  fell  back.  A  company 
of  the  roist  had  come  to  man  the  trenches  be- 
hind our  guns. 

The  air  began  to  vibrate  again,  and  more 
shells  fell,  this  time  right  on  the  top  of  us.  A 
splinter  brushed  by  my  head  and  clanged  on 
the  armour  of  the  ammunition  wagon.  Another 
shell  plumped  down  in  the  trench  full  of  in- 
fantry. One,  two,  three  seconds  passed;  then 
came  a  groan  and  a  cry.  A  man  got  up  and 
fled,  then  another,  and,  finally,  the  whole  com- 
pany. Their  heads  held  low,  and  with  bent 
knees,  they  scurried  off.  Behind  them  a 
wounded  man  hastily  unstrapped  his  pack,  threw 
both  it  and  his  gun  to  one  side,  and  limped 
rapidly  away. 


THE  RETREAT  125 

A  road  orderly  arrived  with  an  envelope  for 
the  Major.  Orders  to  retire.  We  limbered 
up,  and  moved  off  at  a  walking  pace.  Under 
the  bright  sun  the  stubble-field,  with  its 
entrails  of  black  earth  laid  bare  by  the  gashes 
torn  by  the  high-explosive  shells,  seemed  to 
possess  something  of  the  horror  of  a  corpse 
mutilated  with  gaping  wounds.  Near  the  points 
of  explosion  clods  of  earth  had  been  blown  to 
a  distance,  and,  round  the  edge  of  the  hole,  the 
soil  was  raised  in  a  circular  embankment.  We 
were  still  threatened  by  sudden  death.  Some 
one  asked: 

"Why  don't  we  go  quicker?  ...  If  we  stay 
here  they'll  make  jelly  of  us !" 

But  I  fancy  that  all  of  us  were  conscious 
that  fatalism — which  is,  I  believe,  the  begin- 
ning of  courage — had  got  a  grip  on  us.  The 
enemy  was  firing  without  seeing  us,  and  his 
shells  seemed  like  the  blows  of  Fate  descending 
from  heaven.  Why  here  rather  than  there? 
We  did  not  know,  and  the  enemy  assuredly 
did  not  know  either.  In  that  case,  what  was 
the  good  of  hurrying?  Death  might  as  easily 
overtake  us  a  little  farther  on.  Useless  to 
hurry,  then;  absolutely  useless.  ...  In  front, 
our  officers,  heel  by  heel,  rode  on,  talking. 

In  the  trench  in  which  the  shell  had  just 
burst  a  single  soldier  remained  behind.  He 


126  MY  -75 

was  stretched  out  face  downwards  on  a  heap 
of  straw  which  he  had  gathered  under  him  for 
greater  comfort.  Blood  was  oozing  from  a 
wound  in  his  back,  making  large  black  stains  on 
the  cloth,  and  the  straw  underneath  him  was 
dyed  crimson.  Another  splinter  had  hit  him 
in  the  back  of  the  neck;  his  kepi  had  fallen 
off  and  his  face  was  buried  in  the  straw.  All 
eyes  were  turned  on  him  as  we  passed,  but  not 
a  word  was  said.  What  can  one  say  about  a 
burst  shell  or  a  dead  man? 

Another  defeat!  Just  as  in  1870!  .  .  .  Just 
as  in  1870!  We  were  all  obsessed  by  the  same 
paralysing  thought. 

"They  are  devilish  strong!  Look  at  that!" 
said  Deprez,  pointing  towards  the  plateau 
where,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  swarms 
of  French  infantry  could  be  seen  retreating. 
Latour,  six  hours'  fighting;  to-day,  hardly  more. 
Beaten  again!  Oh,  God! 

We  felt  a  blind  rage  against  those  who  had 
fallen  back.  We  did  not  retreat  last  Saturday 
when  we  were  in  action  by  the  willow-tree. 

In  the  distance,  towards  Marville,  columns 
of  artillery  were  trailing  over  the  bare  fields. 
A  blue  and  red  squadron  was  raising  clouds  of 
dust.  Waves  of  infantry,  diminishing  but  still 
noticeable,  dust-covered  cavalry,  and  black 
lines  of  artillery  could  be  seen  as  far  as  the 


THE  RETREAT  127 

horizon,  moving  under  the  scorching  sun.  The 
guns  had  ceased  to  roar  and  there  was  absolute 
silence.  The  earth,  parched  and  hot,  exhaled 
a  vapour  which  seemed  to  follow  the  move- 
ments of  the  men.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  entire 
plateau  had  begun  to  march. 

At  Remoiville  we  came  upon  a  beautiful 
chateau  of  the  Early  Renaissance  period,  with 
severe  lines  of  long  terraces  and  lofty  turrets 
over  which  floated  a  white  flag  with  a  red 
cross.  In  the  village  not  a  soul  was  to  be 
seen.  Doors  and  windows  were  all  closed. 
A  few  hens  were  scratching  about  on  a  manure 
heap,  and  a  pig,  which  two  gunners  were 
killing  in  a  little  sty  black  with  refuse,  raised 
piercing  and  discordant  squeals.  And  yet,  on 
the  threshold  of  one  of  the  last  houses,  a 
wretched  ruin  in  the  shadowy  interior  of 
which  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  varnished 
wardrobe,  two  old  women,  bent  with  age, 
watched  us  as  we  passed  with  eyes  which 
were  hardly  perceptible  under  their  furrowed 
eyelids.  Only  their  fingers  moved.  Their 
silent  and  fixed  stare,  as  keen  as  a  steel  blade, 
followed  us  like  a  reproach.  Oh,  we  know  it 
well,  the  bitter  remorse  of  a  retreat  1  A  deep 
sense  of  shame  oppressed  us  as  we  filed 
through  these  villages  which  we  were  powerless 


128  MY  -75 

to  protect,  which  we  were  abandoning  to  the 
fury  of  the  enemy.  Things  in  them  assumed 
an  almost  human  expression;  the  fronts  of 
the  forsaken  dwellings  wore  an  air  of  dejected 
suffering.  Fancy,  no  doubt!  Just  imagination 
— but  poignant  and  vivid  imagination,  neverthe- 
less, for  to-morrow  all  these  villages  might  be 
burning  and  we,  from  our  camp  on  the  hills, 
should  see  the  crops  and  cottages  flaming  when 
the  sun  went  down. 

It  seems  that  the  Allies  have  beaten  the 
Germans  in  the  north  and  in  Alsace.  At  any 
rate  the  Communal  and  Army  Bulletins, 
which  are  given  us  sometimes,  say  so.  Then 
how  is  it  that  we  are  saddled  with  this  terrible 
reproach  by  things  and  people  whom  we 
cannot  defend  against  an  enemy  too  superior 
in  numbers? 

We  waited  some  time  at  Remoiville,  and  then 
set  off  across  the  river,  which  boasted  a  single 
bridge.  The  crossing  was  carried  out  in  good 
order.  Then,  by  the  only  road,  across  the  val- 
leyed  country  where  dark  green  forests  alter- 
nated with  fresh  pasture-land,  the  retreat  of  the 
4th  Army  Corps  began. 

The  western  horizon  was  limited  by  a  long 
range  of  blue  hills  of  magnificent  outlines.  It 


THE  RETREAT  129 

was  doubtless  upon  these  that  the  French  in- 
tended to  stop  and  entrench  themselves. 

On  the  right  of  the  road  the  interminable 
procession  of  artillery  and  convoys  continued: 
guns  of  all  calibres,  ammunition  wagons,  forage 
wagons,  carts,  supply  and  store  vehicles,  divi- 
sion and  corps  ambulances,  and  peasants'  carts 
full  of  bleeding  wounded,  their  heads  some- 
times enveloped  in  lint  turbans  red  with  gore. 
Keeping  to  the  left  the  infantry  marched 
abreast  in  good  order  down  the  road,  which  was 
already  badly  cut  up.  In  front  of  us  rolled  a 
1 20  mm.  battery.  One  of  the  corporals  had 
half  a  sheep  hanging  from  his  saddle. 

The  loth  Battery  had  lost  all  its  guns,  for 
when,  about  one  o'clock,  the  infantry  gave  up 
all  resistance,  the  gunners  could  not  limber  up, 
the  enemy's  fire  having  almost  completely  de- 
stroyed the  teams.  Captain  Jamain  had  been 
hit  in  the  thigh  by  a  shell  splinter.  We  caught 
sight  of  him  as  he  lay  stretched  on  a  hay-cart 
among  the  wounded  foot-soldiers. 

The  forest,  very  dense  and  very  dark  in  spite 
of  the  blazing  sun,  deadened  the  tramp  of  the 
infantry  on  the  march  and  the  rumble  of  the 
wheels. 

In  the  ditches  some  foundered  horses  were 
standing  with  drooping  heads  and  half-closed 
eyes  glassy  with  fatigue.  Occasionally  a  wheel 


130  MY  -75 

fouled  them,  but  they  did  not  budge  an  inch. 

They  would  only  lie  down  to  die. 

As  it  turned  out,  however,  the  4th  Army 
Corps  was  not  going  to  await  the  enemy  on 
the  hills  which,  in  a  series  of  ridges,  com- 
manded the  plain  and  the  forest.  Some  one 
told  me  that  the  whole  of  Ruffey's  Army  was 
falling  back  behind  the  Meuse.  The  general 
retreat  continued  along  the  highway,  but  our 
Group  turned  aside  down  a  by-road  which  led 
first  to  a  village  swarming  with  troops,  and 
then  zigzagged  up  the  wooded  hill-side. 

We  began  the  ascent.  The  sky  had  suddenly 
clouded  over  and  the  air  became  sultry.  A  few 
drops  of  rain  fell.  The  main  road  below,  over 
which  the  tide  of  retreating  troops  ebbed  cease- 
lessly on  between  the  poplars  bordering  it  on 
either  side,  looked  like  a  canal  filled  with  black 
water  and  moved  by  a  slow  current. 

The  column  halted,  and  we  carefully  wedged 
the  wheels.  The  men  were  tired,  and  hardly 
any  words  were  spoken.  The  silence  was  only 
broken  by  the  jingling  of  the  curb-chains  as 
the  horses  stretched  their  necks,  and  by  the  pat- 
ter of  the  rain  on  the  leaves. 

We  advanced  another  hundred  yards  or  so, 
and  at  the  next  turn  of  the  road  stopped 
again.  A  peasant's  cart,  filled  with  bedding, 


THE  RETREAT  131 

upon  which  were  sitting  a  woman — obviously 
pregnant — and  an  old  lady,  both  sheltering 
under  a  large  umbrella,  tried  to  pass  the 
column.  But  several  of  the  ammunition 
wagons,  of  which  the  wheels  had  been  badly 
secured,  had  slid  backwards  and  barred  the 
way.  A  girl  was  driving  the  heavy  cart,  which 
was  being  laboriously  dragged  up  the  hill  by 
a  mare  in  foal  between  the  shafts,  and  a  colt 
in  front,  the  latter  pulling  in  all  directions. 
Both  the  girl  and  the  animals  stuck  pluckily  to 
their  job. 

"Now  then,  come  up !" 

The  mare  threw  herself  into  the  collar,  and, 
with  our  aid,  they  eventually  reached  the  head 
of  the  column,  after  which  the  way  was  clear. 
The  girl  stopped  the  cart  for  a  moment  and 
caressed  the  nose  of  the  heavy  animal,  from 
whose  haunches  steam  arose  in  clouds. 

We  exchanged  a  few  words. 

"Where  are  you  going  to?" 

"We  don't  know.  At  any  rate  we  must  cross 
the  Meuse.  .  .  .  We're  late,  too.  All  those 
who  had  to  go  went  this  morning,  when  we  first 
heard  the  guns.  But  we  didn't;  we  thought  we 
would  wait  a  little  longer  and  see  what  hap- 
pened. But  after  all  we  had  to  go,  too.  Best 
to  go,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  we  told  them,  "you'd  better  go." 


132  MY  -75 

"And  the  Germans  are  perfect  savages, 
aren't  they?" 

"Yes." 

"They'll  burn  our  houses  ...  we  shan't 
find  anything  when  we  come  back — nothing  but 
ashes.  Oh,  it's  awful!  .  .  .  Can't  you  kill 
them  all?" 

"If  only  we  could!  .  .  ." 

"Now  then,  come  up,  old  girl !" 

The  cart  moved  on. 

"Good  luck!"  cried  the  girl  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Thanks— good  luck!" 

Near  the  top  of  the  hill  was  a  large  clear- 
ing in  the  woods,  from  which  the  forest  ap- 
peared like  a  magnificent  mantle  thrown  over 
the  shoulders  of  the  neighbouring  crests,  round- 
ing their  edges  and  softening  their  outlines. 
From  this  point  we  could  see  the  whole  of  the 
Woevre  plain  we  had  just  crossed  as  well  as 
Remoiville  and  the  plateau  of  Marville,  where, 
standing  sharply  out  against  the  bare  fields,  was 
the  dark  line  of  poplars  near  which  we  had 
been  in  action  in  the  morning. 

Here,  in  a  field  where  the  oats  were  only 
half  cut,  we  prepared  to  wait  for  the  enemy. 
Our  mission  was  to  cover  the  retreat  of  the 
4th  Army  Corps,  which  still  continued  below 
on  the  main  road  over  which  an  interminable 


THE  RETREAT  133 

procession  of  Paris  motor-omnibuses  was  now 
passing.  The  sky  had  become  overcast,  and 
the  heavy  clouds  banking  up  behind  us,  to  the 
west,  threatened  to  shorten  the  daylight. 

Advancing  round  the  edge  of  the  wood,  in 
order  not  to  reveal  our  presence,  the  battery 
finally  came  to  a  halt  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
sloping  forest,  behind  some  clumps  of  trees 
which  afforded  good  cover.  We  unharnessed 
and  placed  the  horses  and  limbers  against  the 
background  of  foliage  of  which,  from  a  long 
distance,  they  would  seem  to  form  part.  We 
hoped  to  have  a  quiet  evening,  especially  as 
the  next  day  would  probably  be  a  very 
strenuous  one.  The  two  batteries  which  at 
present  formed  the  Group,  that  is  to  say  only 
seven  guns,  would  have  to  hold  up  the  enemy 
a  sufficient  time  to  ensure  the  retreat  of  the 
Army  Corps.  But  we  hardly  gave  any  heed 
to  the  morrow,  being  too  tired  to  think  or 
reason. 

We  had  still  to  take  the  horses  to  the  pond 
in  the  village  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  started 
off  down  a  steep  and  narrow  path  through  the 
wood.  The  only  street  of  the  hamlet  was  still 
crowded  with  troops.  Through  the  open  win- 
dow of  the  mayor's  house  I  saw  General  Boelle. 
He  looked  grave  but  not  worried,  and  I 


134  MY  -75 

searched  in  vain  for  a  sign  of  uneasiness  in  his 

expression. 

Infantrymen  had  piled  arms  on  both  sides 
of  the  road  in  front  of  the  houses.  A  flag 
in  its  case  was  lying  across  two  piles.  At 
the  door  of  the  vicarage  at  least  two  hundred 
men  were  crowded  together  holding  out  their 
water-bottles.  The  cure,  it  appeared,  was 
giving  them  all  his  wine.  Some  Chasseurs, 
their  reins  slung  over  their  arms,  stood  waiting 
for  orders,  smoking,  their  backs  to  the  wall 
of  the  church.  I  overheard  some  of  their 
talk. 

"So  Mortier's  dead,  is  he?" 

"Yes.    Got  a  bullet  in  the  stomach." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Nothing  much.  .  .  .  He  said,  'They've  got 
me!'  and  he  lay  down  clutching  his  stomach 
with  both  hands.  He  rolled  from  side  to  side 
and  said:  'Ah-a-a-ah!  They've  got  me!' 
His  horse,  Balthazar,  was  sniffing  at  him. 
He  hadn't  let  go  of  the  reins  .  .  .  still  held 
'em  just  like  I'm  holding  these,  over  his  arm. 
I  heard  him  say,  'Poor  old  boy!'  He  was  all 
doubled  up,  and  groaned  and  panted  'ouf- 
ouf!'  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  stretched 
himself  right  out  at  full  length.  .  .  .  One  more 
Chasseur  less !  His  face  wasn't  a  pretty  sight, 
and  I  shut  his  eyes  for  him.  Then  I  broke  off 


THE  RETREAT  135 

a  branch  from  a  tree  and  covered  his  face  with 
it,  as  I  should  like  some  one  to  do  to  me  if  I 
went  under.  .  .  .  Must  cover  up  the  dead 
somehow.  .  .  .  After  that  I  came  back  with 
Balthazar." 

When  we  had  climbed  back  up  the  hill  and 
regained  our  clearing  many  of  the  foot-soldiers 
had  already  left,  while  others  were  strapping 
on  their  packs  and  unpiling  arms.  We  were 
informed  that  only  one  battalion  was  to  stay 
there  and  support  us.  I  wondered  what 
awful  attack  the  next  day  might  hold  in 
store. 

A  Captain  of  infantry  accosted  Astruc,  who 
was  astride  Lieutenant  Hely  d'Oissel's  big 
horse. 

"Hallo  there,  gunner!" 

"Sir?" 

"Well  I'm  blessed  if  it  isn't  Tortue!" 

"Tortue,  sir?    Who's  Tortue?" 

"Why,  the  horse  I  lost.  Sure  enough  I 
There  can't  be  any  mistake.  Dismount  now, 
quick,  and  hand  him  over!" 

Astruc  protested: 

"But,  sir,  this  horse  belongs  to  our  Lieuten- 
ant! I  must  take  him  back  to  him.  What 
would  he  say  to  me!" 

"Well,  I  tell  you  to  dismount.  I  suppose 
I  know  my  own  saddle,  don't  I?  And 


136  MY  -75 

Tortue  .  .  .  why,  she  knows  me.  .  .  .  There ! 

You    see    there's    no    doubt    about    it.       It's 

Tortue  all  right,  my  mare  I  lost  at  Ethe." 
"But,  sir,  this  is  a  horse,  not  a  mare." 
The     officer    examined    the     animal    more 

closely. 

"Oh !  ah !     Why  yes,  it's  true !     Now  that's 

odd  .   .   .  most  extraordinary !      I  could  have 

sworn  it  was  Tortue.   .   .   ." 

Night  fell,  the  mist  enveloping  the  trees 
round  the  clearing.  Under  the  black  clouds 
passed  yet  another  aeroplane,  blacker  even 
than  they.  Could  the  pilot  see  us  at  that  hour? 
If  so  we  might  expect  a  shower  of  shells  at 
daybreak.  The  machine  pitched  and  tossed 
in  the  sky  above  the  clearing,  for  the  wind 
had  risen  and  was  blowing  in  gusts  from  the 
west. 

We  had  strewn  some  cut  oats  round  the 
guns,  as  the  night  was  chilly,  and  it  looked 
like  rain.  The  wind,  freshening  into  a  gale, 
wrapped  our  cloaks  tightly  round  us  and 
almost  seemed  to  move  the  men  themselves. 
No  light  of  any  kind  was  to  be  seen  on  the 
plain  over  which  our  guns  were  pointing,  and 
which  soon  became  shrouded  in  the  impene- 
trable darkness  ahead.  In  one  corner  the 
clearing  cut  into  the  forest,  and  here,  where 


THE  RETREAT  137 

the  thick  brushwood  rose  like  a  black  wall  on 
either  side,  we  were  allowed  to  light  a  fire. 
The  wind  blew  in  gusts  on  the  flames,  which 
it  first  nearly  extinguished  and  then  rekindled, 
making  the  shadows  of  the  men  flicker  fantas- 
tically on  the  ground. 

I  was  tired  out — artillery  fire  creates  an  irre- 
sistible desire  to  sleep — and  I  was  also  rather 
hungry.  Not  feeling  possessed  of  sufficient 
courage  to  wait  for  the  meat  to  be  cooked  and 
the  coffee  brewed,  I  devoured  my  ration  of 
beef  raw  and  stretched  myself  out  in  the  oats 
behind  the  ammunition  wagon,  where  I  was 
sheltered  from  the  wind. 

Wednesday,  August  26 
Reveille  came  at  dawn,  and  we  woke  to 
find  a  thick  fog  enveloping  the  battery.  We 
were  soaking  with  dew,  and  our  benumbed 
and  swollen  limbs  moved  jerkily  and  with  diffi- 
culty. The  uncertain  half-light  awoke  in  us  a 
feeling  of  anxiety  and  dread  which,  still  heavy 
with  sleep  as  we  were,  it  was  hard  to  throw 
off. 

Wrapped  in  our  cloaks  and  standing  motion- 
less round  the  guns,  we  had  leisure  to  examine 
our  situation  in  this  clearing  in  the  middle  of 
the  forest.  On  the  right,  according  to  our 
officers,  it  was  not  known  whether  there  were 


138  MY  .75 

any  French  troops.  On  this  side  the  woods 
stretched  uninterruptedly  from  the  ridges  we 
were  occupying  as  far  as  Remoiville.  On  the 
left  the  movements  of  the  4th  Army  Corps 
were  to  be  carried  out.  It  is  said  that  nor- 
mally an  army  corps  takes  ten  hours  to  effect 
a  retreat  along  a  single  road.  And  this  re- 
treat had  already  been  in  progress  for  more 
than  fifteen  hours. 

Our  position  in  the  clearing  was  difficult  in 
itself,  and  might  become  positively  perilous  if 
the  fog  did  not  lift.  Nothing  could  be  distin- 
guished at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards  from  the 
guns,  and  the  enemy  might  advance  in  the  plain, 
threaten  the  retreating  army,  and  take  us  by 
surprise. 

On  all  sides  of  us,  therefore,  were  the  woods 
and  their  shadows,  the  Unknown  and  Unex- 
pected. In  front  of  us  the  enemy  hidden  in 
the  mist;  behind,  the  Meuse;  danger  every- 
where. 

The  thought  of  the  Meuse  was  especially 
disturbing.  When  it  should  become  necessary 
for  us  to  retire  in  our  turn,  the  Germans,  whom 
there  would  be  nothing  to  check  on  the  right, 
might  reach  the  river  before  us.  Possibly  we 
should  not  find  a  single  bridge  left  standing. 
We  might  have  to  sacrifice  ourselves  for  the 
defence  of  the  army. 


THE  RETREAT  139 

The  hours  dragged  by.  The  mists  seemed 
to  be  collecting  on  the  flank  of  the  hills  facing 
the  Meuse,  whence  they  were  wafted  by  the 
west  wind  in  filmy,  trailing  clouds  which 
gradually  curled  over  the  crests  of  the  hills, 
floated  towards  us,  enveloping  our  batteries 
for  an  instant,  and  then  slowly  sank  down  on 
the  plain. 

I  have  written  these  notes  on  my  knee,  my 
back  resting  against  the  brass  bottoms  of  the 
shells  in  the  ammunition  wagon,  which  was 
opened  out  like  a  wardrobe.  The  men  were 
standing  about  smoking,  waiting  for  orders. 

At  last,  about  eight  o'clock,  the  sun  shone 
over  the  top  of  the  hill  and  the  fog,  like  a  kind 
of  impenetrable  gauze,  began  to  draw  away 
in  front  of  us.  One  by  one  the  trees  reappeared, 
only  the  tops  of  the  loftiest  remaining  shrouded 
in  the  mist.  Nothing  stirred.  The  road,  black 
yesterday  with  men  and  horses,  now  appeared 
absolutely  white  between  the  meadows  damp 
with  dew  and  vividly  green  under  the  first  rays 
of  the  morning  sun. 

Lying  flat  on  our  chests  in  the  grass  in  front 
of  our  guns,  on  a  sort  of  natural  terrace  be- 
tween the  stones  descending  the  slope,  we 
scanned  the  plain.  After  a  time  everything 


140  MY  -75 

seemed  to  move,  and  one  had  to  make  an  effort 

to  dispel  the  illusion. 

The  men  are  saying  that  we  may  have  to 
stay  here  two  days.  Surely  that  cannot  be 
possible?  Somebody  asserted  that  he  had 
heard  the  instructions  given  to  the  Major  by 
a  General: 

"You'll  stay  there,"  said  he,  "as  long  as  the 
position  is  tenable.  I  rely  on  your  instinct  as 
an  artilleryman." 

Another  man  supported  the  first  speaker. 

"Yes,  that's  right.  He  said,  'Solente,  I  rely 
on  your  instinct  as  an  artilleryman.'  Why,  I 
heard  him  myself." 

We  also  heard  that  last  Saturday's  engage- 
ment would  be  known  as  the  Battle  of  Ethe. 

"No,"  said  another.  "It  will  be  called  the 
Battle  of  Virton." 

"Ethe,  Virton!  .  .  .  What  the  devil  does 
it  matter  what  it?s  called.  Seeing  that  we've 
had  to  retreat!  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  all  the  same,"  said  the  trump- 
eter, "we  ought  to  know.  Suppose  you  get 
back  to  your  people  and  they  ask  you  what  en- 
gagements you've  been  in.  You'll  answer,  'I've 
been  fighting  in  Belgium.'  'Yes,'  they'll  say, 
'but  Belgium  is  a  big  place — bigger  than  our 
commune !  Were  you  at  Liege,  or  Brussels,  or 
Copenhagen?'  You  would  look  a  silly  fool!" 


THE  RETREAT  141 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

With  the  help  of  a  bayonet  we  opened  a  box 
of  bully-beef  for  the  four  of  us,  and  fell  to. 
The  only  sound  was  that  made  by  the  hatchet 
of  one  of  the  men  who  was  chopping  down  a 
small  birch-tree  which  might  conceivably  inter- 
fere with  the  fire  of  his  gun. 

The  silence  was  too  intense,  the  immobility 
of  the  countryside  too  complete.  The  enemy 
was  there.  We  neither  heard  him  nor  saw  him, 
but  that  only  rendered  him  the  more  sinister. 
The  unwonted  calm,  when  we  had  braced  our- 
selves up  for  battle,  was  terrifying,  and  our 
nerves  became  overstrained. 

I  supposed  that  the  retreat  of  the  4th  Army 
Corps  had  by  this  time  been  accomplished. 
Time  passed,  and  the  French  army  was  still 
falling  back,  while  the  enemy  advanced 
cautiously,  threading  his  way  through  the 
woods. 

Suddenly,  about  two  o'clock,  a  machine-gun 
began  to  crackle  quite  close  by  in  the  forest. 
A  horseman  galloped  through  the  clearing  and 
drew  rein  beside  the  Major.  We  at  once  lim- 
bered up. 

Was  our  retreat  cut  off?  The  staccato 
rattle  of  the  machine-gun  was  now  accom- 
panied by  intermittent  rifle-fire.  We  had  to 
cross  the  clearing  diagonally  in  order  to  reach 


142  MY  -75 

a  forest  path.  Quite  calmly,  and  determined 
to  save  our  guns,  we  got  our  rifles  ready.  But 
the  column  crossed  the  close-cropped  field 
without  our  hearing  a  single  bullet,  and  we 
gained  the  wood  in  safety.  We  had  to  hurry, 
for  the  road,  even  if  still  open,  might  be  closed 
at  any  moment. 

Leaning  over  the  necks  of  the  horses  in  or- 
der to  avoid  the  low-hanging  branches  which 
threatened  to  drag  them  from  their  saddles,  and 
gauging  by  eye  the  narrow  passage  between  the 
trees,  the  drivers  urged  their  teams  forward 
with  whip  and  spur. 

The  road  was  still  open.  .  .  .  We  arrived  at 
Dun-sur-Meuse,  where  we  had  to  cross  the  river. 
The  Captain  assembled  the  non-commissioned 
officers: 

"The  bridge  is  mined.  Warn  your  drivers 
to  take  care  of  the  sacks  on  each  side  of  the 
bridge.  They're  full  of  melinite." 

In  order  to  let  us  through  the  sappers  threw 
some  planks  across  the  pit  they  had  opened  up 
in  the  centre  of  the  bridge. 

The  hindmost  vehicles  of  the  column  had 
not  advanced  two  hundred  yards  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Meuse,  when  a  loud  explosion  shook 
us  on  our  seats.  The  bridge  had  just  been 
blown  up.  Behind  us  a  large  white  cloud  of 


THE  RETREAT  143 

smoke  curled  up  in  thick  volutes,  masking  half 
the  town. 

As  we  stood  waiting  for  orders  in  a  field,  our 
guns  in  double  column,  some  one  called  out: 

"There's  the  postmaster!" 

"At  last!" 

"Letters!  letters!     A  man  from  each  gun!" 

For  eight  days  we  had  been  waiting  for  news, 
and  each  man  drew  a  little  aside  in  order  to  be 
alone  as  he  read. 

It  seems  certain  that  the  battle  of  Saturday 
the  22nd  will  be  known  as  the  battle  of  Virton. 

Thursday,  August  27 

It  had  poured  all  night,  and  rain  was  still 
falling  when  we  rose.  The  thought  of  all  the 
misery  such  weather  must  inevitably  cause 
spoiled  the  satisfaction  we  experienced  at 
feeling  fit  and  fresh  after  ten  hours'  delicious 
sleep  in  a  well-closed  barn.  Our  horse-blankets 
thrown  over  our  heads  like  hoods  and  flapping 
against  our  calves,  we  silently  marched  in  scat- 
tered order  along  the  churned-up  road,  our  feet 
squelching  in  the  mud,  and  finally  regained  the 
park  under  the  lashing  rain. 

The  horses,  motionless,  glistening  with  water 
but  resigned,  endeavoured  unceasingly  to  turn 
their  tails  to  the  rain.  The  stable-pickets  had 


144  MY  -75 

succeeded  in  lighting  fires  but  they  had  had  to 
dig  new  hearths,  for  those  of  the  day  before 
were  swamped  and  black  pieces  of  charred  wood 
were  floating  in  them. 

The  men's  cloaks  were  streaming  and  hung 
heavily  in  stiff  folds  from  their  shoulders. 
Some  of  them  had  turned  up  their  capes  in  or- 
der to  protect  their  heads.  The  gunners  stood 
round  about,  holding  their  red  hands  to  the 
fire. 

"Beastly  rain !  Two  days  more  like  this  and 
we  shall  all  get  dysentery !" 

"I'd  rather  die  of  that  than  be  killed  by  a 
shell,"  said  Hutin. 

"No  use  trying  to  make  coffee,"  growled  Pel- 
letier.  "The  fire  doesn't  give  out  any  heat. 
...  It  would  take  hours." 

"It's  the  wood  that  won't  burn.  It  only 
smokes." 

"Blow  on  it,  Millon!" 

We  turned  our  boot  soles  to  the  heat  in  or- 
der to  dry  them.  The  rain  hissed  and  spat  in 
the  fire. 

"All  the  same,"  said  the  trumpeter,  "if  we 
hadn't  been  betrayed  things  wouldn't  have  gone 
like  this !" 

I  grew  annoyed. 

"Betrayed!  I  was  waiting  for  some  one  to- 
come  out  with  that!" 


THE  RETREAT  145 

"Well,  I  mean  it;  betrayed!  I  heard  about 
it  yesterday.  ...  It  was  a  General  who  de- 
livered up  the  army  plans.  I  know  what  I'm 
talking  about!" 

"Pooh!     Camp  gossip!" 

"I  heard  the  same  thing,"  affirmed  another. 

"Simply  camp  gossip !  From  the  moment 
we  got  scratched  that  was  bound  to  come 
sooner  or  later.  If  you're  beaten  it's  because 
you've  been  betrayed!  The  French  can't  be 
the  weaker!  Lord,  no!  It's  impossible,  of 
course !  But  you  know  there  are  five  German 
army  corps  in  front  of  us.  That  makes  two 
to  one.  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  well,  all  the  same. 
Even  with  two  to  one  we  can't  be  beaten,  can 
we?  And,  if  we  are,  we  at  once  begin  to- 
whine  about  betrayal!  Wasn't  it  you  who 
were  always  saying  that  Langle  de  Gary's 
army  ought  to  come  up  and  help  us?  Eh? 
Well,  it's  all  simply  because  you  don't  feel 
strong  enough  to  tackle  the  Boches  by  your- 
selves." 

"All  the  same,  traitors  exist  right  enough," 
said  the  trumpeter  with  a  sage  nod  of  the  head. 
"There  always  have  been  traitors,  and  there  al- 
ways will  be,  to  sell  France." 

"Idiot!"  said  Hutin  peremptorily. 

Almost  all  my  comrades  thought  as  I  did.. 


146      '  MY  -75 

A  few  properly  equipped  reinforcements  would 
have  enabled  us  to  get  the  upper  hand.  Even 
alone,  here  behind  the  Meuse,  we  could  have 
managed  to  stop  the  enemy. 

Besides,  during  the  days  of  defeat  we  had 
just  been  passing  through,  what  a  moving  pic- 
ture of  our  country  had  been  revealed  to  us! 
An  army  immediately  victorious  cannot  plumb 
the  depths  of  patriotism.  One  must  have 
fought,  have  suffered,  and  have  feared — even 
if  only  for  a  moment — to  lose  her,  in  order  to 
understand  what  one's  country  really  means. 
She  is  the  whole  joy  of  existence,  the  embodi- 
ment of  all  our  pleasures  visible  and  invisible, 
and  the  focus  of  all  our  hopes.  She  alone 
makes  life  worth  living.  All  this  united  and 
personified  in  a  single  suffering  being,  begotten 
by  the  will  of  millions  of  individuals — that  is 
France ! 

In  defending  her  one  defends  oneself,  seeing 
that  she  is  the  sole  reason  for  being,  for  liv- 
ing. One  would  prefer  to  fall  dead  on  the  spot 
rather  than  see  France  lost,  for  that  would 
be  worse  than  death.  Every  soldier  feels  this 
truth,  either  vaguely,  or  distinctly  and  clearly, 
according  to  his  powers  of  perception  and  af- 
fection. 

And  yet,  in  the  camp,  these  things  are  never 
talked  of.  The  reason  is  that  words  which,  in 


THE  RETREAT  147 

peace-time,  too  often  veiled  by  their  gross 
grandiloquence  these  deeper  and  finer  feelings, 
would  be  insupportable  now.  This  passion,  for 
it  is  a  passion,  lies  deep  down  in  the  heart  with 
other  sacred  and  inmost  emotions,  to  give  out- 
ward expression  to  which  would  be  almost  to 
profane  them. 

"Come  on,  now!  Harness!  Hook  in! 
We're  off." 

The  rain  had  soured  the  men's  tempers. 

"Now  then !  Be  careful  with  your  horse, 
can't  you ?  You  might  have  killed  us !" 

"Untie  your  horses  so  that  we  can  get  the 
picket-lines,  will  you?  .  .  .  All  right,  damn 
you,  I'll  do  it  myself." 

"There's  a  silly  fool !  Fine  place  to  tether  a 
colt  to — the  wheel  of  an  ammunition  wagon. 
He's  ripping  up  the  oat-bag.  Pull  him  off, 
can't  you?" 

Cramone,  threatening  his  team  with  his  whip, 
repeated  for  the  twentieth  time : 

"I'll  teach  you  how  to  behave,  you 
brutes!" 

"There's  another  dish  lost,"  shouted  Millon. 
"Who's  the  idiot  who  didn't  pick  it  up  yester- 
day?" 

"Can't  you  pull  your  infernal  mules  back  a 


148  MY  -75 

bit?  ...  We    can't    limber    up.  ...  Never 

seen  such  a  fool!  .  .  ." 

The  men  pushed  and  tugged  at  their  horses, 
which,  face  to  the  wind,  continued  pulling 
this  way  and  that  in  a  vain  attempt  to  prevent 
the  rain  stinging  their  ears.  Brejard  lost  his 
temper. 

"Lord,  what  a  set!  Can't  you  keep  your 
horses  straight?  .  .  .  Look  at  that  off-leader! 
.  .  .  Can't  you  see  he's  got  entangled?  .  .  ." 

"Thought  we  were  going  to  have  a  rest  to- 
day!" 

"I  suppose  the  Germans  are  resting,  aren't 
they?" 

The  start  was  difficult.  During  the  night  the 
wheels  of  the  vehicles  had  sunk  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  softening  soil,  and  the  horses' 
hoofs  kept  slipping  on  the  slope. 

Once  on  the  road  the  battery  broke  into  a 
trot,  the  mud  splashing  in  sprays  from  under 
the  feet  of  the  horses.  Some  of  the  gunners, 
attacked  by  colic,  stopped  in  the  ditches,  and 
then,  still  doing  up  their  breeches,  ran  along  by 
the  side  of  the  column  in  order  to  overtake 
their  vehicles. 

We  were  going  to  extend  a  strong  artillery 
position  on  the  heights  of  the  Meuse  valley. 
From  the  hills  near  Stenay  the  sound  of  the 
guns  reached  us  in  gusts,  and,  some  distance 


THE  RETREAT  149 

off,  above  the  woods,  we  could  see  the  shrapnel 
shells  bursting.  The  rain  had  stopped,  and 
the  sky,  dark  a  moment  previously,  suddenly 
cleared  and  assumed  a  uniformly  light  grey 
tint. 

In  a  meadow  by  the  roadside  some  peasants, 
fleeing  before  the  tide  of  invasion,  had  set  up 
their  nightly  camp.  A  large  green  awning  shel- 
tered their  cart  and  formed  a  tent  at  the  same 
time.  Two  shafts  projected  from  the  front 
end,  pointing  skywards.  An  old  man  and  two 
women — both  pregnant — with  half  a  dozen 
children  clinging  to  their  skirts,  watched  us  go 
by. 

The  road  rose  stiffly  upwards,  and  the  column 
slackened  its  pace  to  a  walk.  I  heard  one  of 
the  women  say  to  the  old  man,  as  she  gave  him 
a  nudge  with  her  elbow: 

"Go  on,  father!" 

The  old  man  hesitated,  but  she  insisted : 

"You  must!" 

He  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind,  and  ap- 
proached us,  shifting  from  one  leg  to  another. 
Then,  with  a  red  face,  he  muttered: 

"No!  Can't  ask  for  that  at  my  time  of 
life!" 

He  was  about  to  go,  but  we  stopped  him. 

"Ask  for  what,  old  fellow?" 


150  MY  -75 

"For  a  bit  of  bread,  if  you've  got  any  over. 
It's  for  the  children!" 

"Yes,  of  course  we  have !  We  never  eat  it 
all!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact  we  seldom  get  enough 
bread.  The  loaves  have  to  be  sorted  out,  and, 
when  the  mouldy  parts  have  been  thrown  away, 
the  ration  is  usually  more  than  halved.  The 
old  man  walked  by  the  side  of  the  limber  while 
the  men  searched  in  their  bags. 

"Here  you  are !" 

Two  loaves,  almost  fresh,  were  held  out  to 
him. 

"With  an  onion  and  a  good  set  of  teeth 
they're  eatable!" 

"Thanks.  .  .  .  Thank  you  so  much.  .  .  . 
But  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  short  yourselves!" 

"Oh,  no!  That's  all  right,  old  chap! 
Why,  we  get  a  wagonful  of  those  every 
day!" 

He  made  off,  a  loaf  under  each  arm.  I  saw 
him  hunch  his  shoulders  and  dry  his  eyes  with 
the  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

A  shower  of  shrapnel  shells  suddenly  burst 
in  the  distance,  over  the  dark  woods. 

"Swine!"  growled  Millon  between  his  teeth. 
He  had  given  up  his  bread. 

He  shook  his  fist  towards  the  enemy. 

Once  in  position  to  sweep  the  uplands  on  the 


THE  RETREAT  151 

right  bank  of  the  Meuse,  we  dried  ourselves  in 
the  sun. 

In  the  afternoon  a  few  horsemen,  Uhlans 
presumably,  appeared  on  the  edge  of  a  distant 
wood.  A  broadside  of  shells  quickly  made  them 
seek  cover  again. 

Friday,  August  28 

"Alarm!" 

"What?" 

"Come  on,  up  you  get!" 

"What's  the  time?" 

"Don't  know.  .  .  .  It's  still  dark." 

"All  right,  then,  we'll  get  up.  Hutin,  come 
on,  get  up!" 

I  shook  Hutin,  who  growled  in  answer : 

"All  right !  Oh,  Lord,  I  was  so  comfortable 
there!" 

The  noise  of  shuffling  straw  filled  the  barn. 

"What's  the  time?"  repeated  somebody. 

"Look  out  there !  There's  a  rung  missing  in 
the  ladder." 

Noises  of  feet  scraping  against  the  ladder. 
An  oath. 

"Get  the  lantern!" 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Hanging  behind  the  door." 

The  men  groped  about  for  their  belong- 
ings. 


152  MY  -75 

"My  kepi!" 

"Dashed  if  I  can  find  the  lantern !  Come  and 
help,  can't  you?" 

"Sure  it  can't  be  two  o'clock  yet." 

"Come  along  now,  hurry  up,"  cried  a  ser- 
geant, opening  the  door.  "Anybody  else  still 
asleep?" 

No  one  replied.  Outside,  it  was  very  cold, 
and  the  night  was  dark.  Not  a  star  was  to 
be  seen.  Fires  had  been  lit  in  the  middle  of 
the  village,  and  coffee  was  on  the  boil.  The 
church,  a  diminutive  chapel  magnified  by  the 
light  from  below,  had  almost  the  air  of  a 
cathedral,  its  spire  lost  in  the  inky  blackness 
of  the  sky.  Fantastic  shadows  danced  on  the 
walls,  and  the  windows  were  momentarily 
lit  up  by  red  or  green  lights.  A  crowd  of 
poor  people  fleeing  from  the  enemy  were 
sleeping  in  the  nave,  together  with  some 
soldiers  who  in  vain  had  sought  shelter  else- 
where. Through  the  front  entrance,  which 
was  wide  open,  the  interior  of  the  church 
looked  mysterious,  filled  as  it  was  with 
fugitive  light  and  shadows,  like  those  cast 
by  a  building  on  fire.  Under  the  vivid 
reflections  of  the  stained-glass  windows  on  the 
marble  floor  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  prostrate 
human  figures.  In  the  square,  soldiers  coming 


THE  RETREAT  153 

and  going  between  their  fires  threw  enormous 
shadows  on  the  ground  and  on  the  walls  of  the 
houses. 

Why  this  alarm?  Has  the  enemy  succeeded 
in  crossing  the  frontier  near  Stenay?  We 
set  off  behind  the  infantry,  whose  tramp, 
tramp  sounded  like  the  movement  of  a  flock  of 
sheep  on  the  road.  The  night  was  alive  with 
moving  but  unseen  forms.  The  breathing  of 
hundreds  of  men  on  the  march  was  felt  rather 
than  heard;  every  now  and  then,  as  if  from 
far  off,  came  a  half-lost  word.  All  this 
invisible  life  in  movement  seemed  to  give  off 
currents  which  traversed  the  night  air  like 
electricity. 

In  the  distance  we  heard  the  sound  of  the 
guns.  We  were  marching  toward  them. 

Soon  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  lit  up  the 
wooded  hills,  which  reared  their  severe  yet 
splendid  crests  between  us  and  the  Meuse.  We 
passed  through  Tailly — a  village  at  the  bottom 
of  a  ravine,  consisting  of  a  few  cottages,  a 
church,  and  a  cemetery.  The  cold  bleakness 
of  dawn  was  soon  succeeded  by  the  infinite  vi- 
bration of  light  over  the  countryside  and  on 
the  forest.  Through  the  depths  of  an  immense 
breach,  breaking  the  monotony  of  the  hills 
which  border  the  Meuse,  a  roadway  leads  to- 
wards the  river. 


154  MY  -75 

When  we  arrived  at  Beauclair,  in  the  valley 
of  the  Meuse,  the  engagement  appeared  to  have 
finished. 

In  front  of  the  church  the  infantry  who 
had  just  been  in  action  were  resting  amid 
their  piled  arms.  The  majority  were  pale — 
but  some  were  very  red.  They  had  thrown 
themselves  down  on  the  bare  ground  in  the 
sun,  and  not  one  of  them  moved  a  muscle. 
The  stiffened  features  of  the  sleepers  were 
eloquent  of  tragic  weariness  as  they  lay  there 
with  open  coats  and  shirts,  showing  glimpses 
of  naked  chests.  All  were  indescribably  dirty, 
their  legs  plastered  with  mud  up  to  the 
knees. 

The  battery  halted  outside  the  last  houses  of 
the  village,  and  we  at  once  set  about  making 
coffee.  A  hulking  infantryman  came  up  to  ask 
for  an  onion.  We  questioned  him: 

"So  they've  not  succeeded  in  crossing  the 
Meuse  yet?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  have!  .  .  .  One  brigade 
got  over  all  right  .  .  .  but  the  artillery  had 
mowed  down  the  bridges  behind  them,  and  so 
we  had  a  go  at  them  with  fixed  bayonets.  .  .  . 
Lord!  you  don't  know  what  that's  like,  you 
chaps !  .  .  .  A  charge !  .  .  .  It's  awful !  .  .  . 
Never  known  anything  like  it!  If  there  is  a 
Hell,  I  expect  there's  bayonet  fighting  always 


THE  RETREAT  155 

going  on  there!  .  .  .  No!  I  mean  it!  Off 
you  go,  shouting.  .  .  .  Then  one  or  two  fall, 
and  after  them  lots  of  others.  .  .  .  And  the 
more  that  fall  the  louder  you've  got  to  shout 
so  that  the  others  will  come  along.  And  then 
when  at  last  you  get  to  close  quarters  with  'em, 
why,  you're  just  raving  mad,  and  you  thrust 
and  thrust.  .  .  .  But  the  first  time  you  feel 
your  bayonet  sink  into  a  chap's  stomach,  you 
feel  a  bit  queer.  .  .  .  It's  all  soft,  you've 
only  got  to  shove  a  bit!  .  .  .  But  it's  harder 
to  withdraw  clean!  I  was  so  damned  gentle 
that  I  upset  my  fellow — a  great  big  fat  chap 
with  a  red  beard.  I  couldn't  pull  my  bayonet 
out  .  .  .  had  to  put  my  foot  on  his  chest,  and 
felt  him  squirm  under  my  tread.  Here,  have  a 
look  at  this!  .  .  ." 

He  drew  out  his  bayonet,  which  was  red  up 
to  the  cross-bar.  As  he  went  away  he  stooped 
down  and  plucked  a  handful  of  grass  to  clean 
it. 

The  hours  passed.  The  enemy  appeared  un- 
willing to  make  another  attempt  to  force  the 
passage  of  the  Meuse. 

We  heard  that  d'Amade  had  made  a  flank 
attack  on  the  opposing  German  army,  and  had 
taken  Marville. 

D'Amade!  Well  done,  d'Amade !  But  .  .  . 
was  it  true? 


156  MY  -75 

At  Halles,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Beauclair, 
we  encamped  at  the  foot  of  some  high  hills. 
The  guns,  which  for  some  time  past  had  been 
silent,  again  began  to  thunder.  The  enemy  was 
bombarding  the  heights  above  us. 

As  billets  for  the  night  we  had  been  given  a 
spacious  barn.  But  when  at  dusk  we  went  there 
to  get  some  sleep  we  found  our  straw  covered 
with  foot-soldiers,  rifles,  and  packs. 

The  artillerymen  began  swearing: 

"Hallo,  what  the  hell's  all  this?  No  more 
room  left?" 

There  was  a  scrimmage  to  let  us  find  places. 

The  barn  had  a  loft  above  it  to  which  a 
ladder  gave  access,  and  the  floor  of  which  was 
worm-eaten.  We  stuffed  up  the  holes  with 
hay. 

"There  we  are!  As  usual,  the  artillery 
above,  and  the  infantry  below.  That's  all 
right.  .  .  .  But  mind  you  don't  take  the  ladder 
away!" 

"Take  care  of  your  feet.  .  .  .  O-o-oh !" 

"Why  couldn't  you  say  you  were  in  the 
straw?" 

"Now  then,  up  you  go !" 

Five  or  six  artillerymen  were  on  the  ladder 
at  the  same  time.  It  bent  beneath  their  weight. 
Below,  a  foot-soldier  stood  motionless,  holding 
a  candle  in  his  hand. 


THE  RETREAT  157 

"Look  out!     Don't  want  your  spurs  in  my 

face,  you  know!" 

"Growl  away,  old  chap!     Let's  get  up." 
"The  floor's  giving  way!  .  .  .  They'll  fall 

through." 

"Go  on,  climb  up!     It's  less  dangerous  than 

the  shells!" 

"Damn  it  all,  move  up  a  bit,  you  fellows; 

otherwise  there  won't  be  room  for  all  of  us!" 
"Don't    go    there!      There's    a    hole.  .  .  . 

You'll  fall  on  the  fellows  down  below!" 
Downstairs  the  infantry  were  grumbling: 
"Can't  you  keep  quiet,  up  there,  eh?     We 

want  to  sleep!     And  the  straw's  all  falling  in 

our  mouths!" 

"If  only  it  would  stop  yours !" 

"Look  out,  you're  on  my  stomach !" 

"Sorry.      Can't   see   an  inch   in   here.  .  .  . 

Can't  you  raise  the  lantern  over  there?" 

Again  came  the  sound  of  a  shell  bursting 
in  the  distance.  I  hesitated  whether  to  take 
off  my  spurs  and  leggings,  although  I  knew 
quite  well  that  I  should  sleep  better  without 
them.  But,  if  there  was  an  alarm,  should  I 
be  able  to  find  them  in  the  straw?  Finally,  I 
decided  to  keep  them  on,  nor  did  I  unstrap  my 
revolver  holster,  which  was  chafing  my  side.  I 


158  MY- -75 

tightened  my  chin-strap  so  as  not  to  lose  my 
kepi. 

Saturday,  August  29 

Reveille  came  at  two  o'clock,  together  with 
orders  to  start  at  once.  The  Germans,  we 
heard,  had  crossed  the  Meuse.  But  our  artillery 
had  no  doubt  registered  the  course  of  the  river. 
I  could  not  understand  why  we  had  not  heard 
the  guns. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  early  dawn  the  road 
showed  up  yellow  between  the  blue-grey  fields. 
On  the  way  I  recognised  the  yew-trees  of  a  cem- 
etery in  which  some  dead  were  being  buried  the 
day  before. 

We  stopped  in  column  on  the  steep  ascent  to- 
wards Tailly,  and  waited  for  orders.  The  day 
broke  behind  the  hills  and  gradually  overspread 
the  whole  horizon. 

One  by  one  the  regiments  of  the  yth  Division 
climbed  up  from  the  ravine  and  passed  us. 
The  men  looked  haggard  and  tired.  Their 
eyes  were  hollow,  and  the  faces  of  the  young- 
est, drawn  and  sallow  with  privations,  were 
furrowed  with  lines.  The  corners  of  their 
mouths  drooped.  Bending  forward  under  the 
weight  of  their  packs,  in  the  attitude  of  Christ 
bearing  the  Cross,  the  infantry  toiled  up  the 
hill  as  though  it  were  a  Calvary.  At  every 
hundred  yards  or  so  they  halted  and  rehoisted 


THE  RETREAT  159 

their  burdens  with  a  jerk  of  their  shoulders. 
Some  of  them  were  holding  out  their  rifles  at 
arm's  length,  as  though  it  were  a  balance  which 
helped  them  to  march.  Others  were  complain- 
ing that  they  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  two 
days.  One  of  the  roist,  a  pale,  lanky,  thin- 
faced  fellow,  with  feverishly  bright  eyes,  halted 
close  to  us  and  stroked  the  chase  of  the 
gun. 

"Lord,"  said  he  to  Hutin,  "you  might  as 
well  put  a  shell  through  my  chest!  At  least 
there'd  be  an  end  of  it  I" 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  to  talk  like  that?" 

The  other  made  a  vague  gesture,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  went  off  dragging  one  leg 
after  him. 

As  soon  as  the  infantry  had  gone  by  we  were 
ordered  to  take  up  our  position  on  the  plain, 
near  the  edge  of  the  wood  behind  which  the 
regiments  of  the  line  were  retreating. 

I  heard  the  Major  repeat  the  order  received 
to  the  Captain:  "Prevent  the  enemy  from 
setting  foot  on  the  plateau.  There  are  no  more 
French  in  front  of  you!" 

"So  we  are  still  covering  the  retreat!  A 
vile  job !"  said  Millon,  the  firing  number,  a 
good  little  Parisian  chap,  with  a  face  like  a 
girl. 

In  our  present  position  we  ran  as  great  a 


160  MY  -75 

risk  from  the  rifle  and  machine-gun  fire  as 
from  the  shells.  Not  far  off  on  the  edge  of  the 
plateau,  near  the  brush-shaped  poplar,  was  a 
dark  little  copse  whence  at  any  minute  bullets 
might  come  buzzing  about  our  ears.  The  Ger- 
mans might  get  their  machine-guns  there  with- 
out being  seen,  rather  than  risk  coming  out  into 
the  open.  And  what  might  we  expect  then? 
Oh,  well!  .  .  .  After  all,  that  is  what  we  had 
come  there  for. 

"If  we  hadn't  been  sold,  things  would  have 
gone  very  differently,"  growled  Tuvache,  a 
Breton  farmer,  who  was  brave  enough  under 
fire,  but  who  suffered  from  bad  morale. 

And,  still  obsessed  by  the  idea  of  treason,  he 
added: 

"And  the  proof  is  that  they've  been  able  to 
cross  the  Meuse  without  hindrance." 

Brejard  made  him  stop  talking. 

"Why,  you're  worse  than  the  others,  you 
are !  We're  fighting  from  the  North  Sea  right 
down  to  Belfort,  aren't  we?  Well,  then,  how 
can  you  judge  by  one  wretched  little  corner? 
Perhaps  we're  letting  them  advance  as  far 
as  this  in  order  to  surround  'em  afterwards. 
.  .  .  Some  of  you  chaps  always  seem  to  know 
more  than  your  Generals.  .  .  .  And  besides, 
all  this  time  the  Russians  are  advancing. 
You  let  things  be.  ...  We  shall  have  'em 


THE  RETREAT  161 

some  day,  never  fear !  And  then  they'll  pay  for 
this!" 

We  awaited  the  appearance  of  the  heads  of 
the  enemy's  columns,  which  from  one  moment 
to  another  might  emerge  from  the  Tailly 
valley. 

The  plateau,  shining  with  dew,  had  assumed 
that  absolutely  silent  immobility  one  so  often 
notices  in  the  country  in  the  early  hours  of  a 
sunny  morning. 

Four  black  points  suddenly  appeared  far 
down  the  road?  Was  it  the  enemy's  advanced 
guard?  No.  We  were  soon  able  to  recognise 
three  stragglers  and  a  cyclist.  A  troop  in 
column  of  march  followed  them  out  of  the 
valley.  In  this  order  they  could  not  be 
Germans.  The  column,  which  proved  to  be  a 
battalion  of  the  loist,  passed  by,  and  dis- 
appeared down  the  road  leading  to  the  wood. 
But,  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  valleyed  country 
stretching  on  the  north-west  as  far  as  the  dark 
masses  of  distant  forests,  Lieutenant  Hely 
d'Oissel  had  discovered  through  his  field- 
glasses  large  masses  of  men  marching 
westwards  through  sunken  roads  which 
almost  hid  them  from  our  view.  Were 
they  the  enemy,  or  were  they  the  French 
troops  which  were  occupying  the  heights  of 


162  MY  -75 

the  Meuse  near  Stenay  and  which  were  now 

retiring? 

We  had  already  experienced  the  same 
terrible  uncertainty  at  Marville.  The  Captain 
climbed  up  into  an  apple-tree  in  order  to  see 
better,  and  the  Major  also  tried  to  recognise 
the  mysterious  troops.  But  neither  could 
distinguish  anything.  A  mist — the  dampness 
of  the  night  evaporating — was  already  rising 
from  the  ground  and  veiling  the  horizon.  If 
those  were  German  columns,  they  would 
threaten  the  flank  of  the  retreating  army.  A 
scout  was  sent  off  at  a  gallop  to  reconnoitre. 
Time  passed,  and  the  columns  disappeared. 
At  last  the  scout  came  back;  the  troops  were 
French.  He  had  seen  parties  of  Chasseurs 
flanking  them. 

Our  feet  wet  with  dew,  we  once  again  became 
motionless  and  awaited  the  enemy. 

About  midday  we  received  orders  to  move 
to  the  edge  of  the  plateau,  and  take  up  posi- 
tion behind  a  clump  of  trees,  in  order  to  com- 
mand the  Tailly  valley  and  the  hills  on  the  south 
of  Stenay.  And,  continually,  successive  regi- 
ments of  infantry  emerged  from  the  forest  and 
passed  us,  falling  back. 

"Dashed  if  I  can  fathom  it!"  said  Hutin. 

"Nor  can  I!" 


THE  RETREAT  163 

It  was  very  hot,  and  we  were  thirsty,  but 
our  water-bottles  were  empty. 

We  continued  to  wait  until  dusk,  but  the  en- 
emy did  not  appear. 

Night  had  fallen  when  we  were  sent  to  en- 
camp on  the  other  side  of  the  woods. 

The  moon  was  rising  clear  of  the  tree-tops, 
The  regular  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  monoto- 
nous roll  of  the  vehicles  blended  together  into 
a  sort  of  weary  cradle-song,  and  made  us  sleepy 
after  a  time.  In  order  to  suffer  uncomplain- 
ingly all  the  hardships  and  miseries  of  war,  we 
would  have  asked  no  more  than  one  hour  of 
affection,  of  sympathetic  tenderness,  in  safety, 
at  evening-time,  after  the  long  day  spent  in 
watching  or  fighting. 

The  road  was  level,  and  we  were  hardly 
shaken  at  all;  no  one  spoke,  and  most  of  us 
slept  or  dozed. 

No  sound  disturbed  the  stillness  of  the  warm 
night  save  that  of  the  column  on  the  march. 
Gradually  we  lost  ourselves  in  pleasing  reveries 
and  memories  of  the  past,  forgetting  present 
dangers  and  distress.  On  we  jogged  through 
space  and  time.  .  .  .  Lyons  at  night-time  .  .  . 
long  rows  of  lamps  lighting  the  wharves  and 
reflected  in  the  Rhone  .  .  .  above  the  river 
the  amphitheatre  of  Croix-Rousse  with  its 
lights  scintillating  like  golden  points,  and 


1 64  MY  .75 

above  them,  again,  the  stars.  .  .  .  Where  did 
the  town  end,  or  where  did  the  sky  begin?  .  .  . 
And  the  Mayenne  in  the  bright  days  of  autumn 
and  summer,  its  sombre  waters  sparkling  like 
black  diamonds.  .  .  .  The  memories  which  rose 
up  before  me  gradually  blurred  the  scene  of  il- 
lusive reflections. 

And  perhaps  I  should  die  in  a  few  hours' 
time.  .  .  . 

Almost  as  if  I  myself  had  been  able  to  write 
those  beautiful  verses  of  Du  Bellay,  I  felt  the 
aching  nostalgia  of  his  words : 

Quand  reverrai-je,  helas!  de  mon  petit  village 
Fumer  la  cheminee,  et  en  quelle  saison 
Reverrai-je  le  clos  de  ma  pauvre  maison, 
Qui  m'est  une  province  et  beaucoup  d'avan- 
tage? 

I  repeated  the  lines  to  myself  several  times. 

Sunday,  August  30 

This  morning  we  marched  for  hours  through 
clouds  of  dust,  the  sun  scorching  the  backs  of 
our  necks.  The  men  were  thirsty  and  con- 
tinually spat  out  the  clayey  saliva  which 
clogged  their  mouths.  The  battery  halted  in 
a  valley  on  the  outskirts  of  a  village — Villers- 
devant-Dun,  I  think  it  was — where  the  sound 
of  the  guns  seemed  to  come  from  the  west  and 


THE  RETREAT  165 

south  as  well  as  from  the  east  and  north. 
This  was  a  surprise,  and  at  first  made  us  un- 
easy. Janvier,  for  the  hundredth  time,  said: 

"That's  it!    We  are  surrounded!" 

He  was  haunted  by  this  idea.  However,  it 
was  not  long  before  we  discovered  that  the 
illusion  was  solely  caused  by  an  exceptionally 
clear  echo.  In  reality  the  fighting  was  going 
on  near  Dun-sur-Meuse. 

We  crowded  round  the  fountain,  on  the 
surrounding  wall  of  which  the  last  Bulletin 
de's  Communes  was  pasted.  But  first  we  each 
drank,  in  great  gulps,  at  least  a  quart  of  fresh 
water.  Afterwards  we  read  the  news.  All 
was  going  well!  Nevertheless,  it  was  an- 
nounced that  Mulhouse  had  been  retaken.  Ap- 
parently, then,  it  had  been  lost.  We  exchanged 
impressions: 

"Well,  Hutin?" 

"Not  bad,"  he  answered  rather  dubiously, 
"but  they  don't  say  anything  about  our  little 
show  of  last  week." 

Brejard,  on  the  contrary,  was  filled  with  an 
optimism  which  nothing  could  damp : 

"Virton,  Marville — why,  all  that  is  a  mere 
nothing  on  a  front  as  long  as  this!  We've 
had  to  give  a  little  in  some  sectors,  that's 
all.  .  .  .  But  otherwise  things  are  going  quite 
all  right!" 


i66  MY  -75 

"All  the  same,  it  isn't  nice  to  find  ourselves 
in  one  of  the  sectors  which  have  to  give  way," 
answered  Hutin. 

"All  that  will  change.  We're  going  to  be 
reinforced.  .  .  .  They  say  that  De  Langle  is 
only  a  day's  march  off." 

"He'll  have  to  hurry  up  if  he  wants  to  find 
any  of  the  4th  Infantry  left!" 

That  was  true.  The  regiments  of  the  line, 
especially  those  of  the  8th  Division,  had 
suffered  terribly.  Some  battalions  had  been 
diminished  by  two-thirds,  and,  since  the  Bat- 
tle of  Virton,  many  companies  were  not  more 
than  fifty  or  eighty  strong,  and  had  lost  all 
their  officers.  How  we  wished  that  De  Langle 
would  arrive! 

In  the  ever-thickening  dust  and  overpower- 
ing heat  we  returned  by  the  same  road  to  the 
positions  we  had  occupied  the  day  before  at 
Tailly.  It  seemed  to  us  that  we  had  uselessly 
wasted  more  than  seven  hours  marching  in  a 
large  circle. 

Another  German  aeroplane  appeared.  This 
oppression  was  becoming  unbearable !  We  felt 
like  a  flock  of  frightened  sparrows  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  hawk.  The  Germans  have 
improved  and  developed  the  aerial  arm  to  an 
enormous  extent,  and,  unfortunately,  our  .75*8 


THE  RETREAT  167 

are  unable  to  hit  aeroplanes,  the  mobility  of 
the  gun  on  the  carriage  not  being  sufficient. 
It  is  necessary  to  dig  a  pit  for  the  spade,  and 
before  this  is  finished  the  machine  is  always 
out  of  range. 

The  aviator  who  had  just  flown  over  us  had 
thrown  out  a  star  in  order  to  mark  the  situation 
of  one  of  our  batteries  in  position  on  the 
heights  commanding  the  river.  The  guns  at 
once  moved  off,  and  took  up  a  fresh  position 
elsewhere.  Shortly  afterwards  shells  began  to 
fall  on  the  hill  they  had  been  occupying — 
enormous  shells,  which  made  the  earth  quake 
for  miles  around  and  withered  the  grass  with 
their  dirty,  pungent  smoke. 

"I  expect  those  are  the  famous  22  cm.  shells," 
said  the  Captain. 

We  had  nothing  to  do.  Towards  Stenay 
the  horizon  was  deserted  and  motionless. 
For  several  hours  heavy  shells  continued  to  fall 
in  threes,  making  black  holes  in  the  green 
meadows  in  which  not  a  soul  remained.  We 
were  obviously  within  range  of  the  guns  from 
which  they  were  fired,  and  we  had  no  guarantee 
that  we  should  not  be  hit  if  the  enemy  lifted 
his  fire  a  little. 

I  was  struck  by  the  marvellous  faculty  of 
adaptability  which  forms  the  basis  of  human 


i68  MY  -75 

nature.      One  becomes  accustomed  to   danger 

just  as  one  becomes  accustomed  to  the  most 

cruel  privations,  or  to  the  uncertainty  of  the 

morrow. 

Before  the  war  I  used  to  wonder  how  it  was 
that  old  men  nearing  the  extreme  limits  of 
existence  could  continue  to  live  undisturbed 
in  the  imminent  shadow  of  death.  But  now 
I  understand.  For  us  the  risk  of  death  has 
become  an  element  of  daily  life  with  which 
one  coolly  reckons,  which  no  longer  astonishes, 
and  terrifies  less.  Besides,  a  soldier's  every- 
day life  is  a  school  for  courage.  Familiarity 
with  the  same  dangers  eventually  leaves  the 
human  animal  unmoved.  One's  nerves  no 
longer  quiver;  the  conscious  and  constant  ef- 
fort to  keep  control  over  oneself  is  successful 
in  the  end.  Therein  lies  the  secret  of  all 
military  courage.  Men  are  not  born  brave; 
they  become  brave.  The  instinct  to  conquer 
is  more  or  less  resistant — that  is  all.  More- 
over, one  must  live,  on  the  field  of  battle  just 
as  elsewhere;  it  is  necessary  to  become  accus- 
tomed to  this  new  existence,  no  matter  how 
perilous  or  harsh  it  may  be.  And  what  ren- 
ders it  difficult — more,  intolerable — is  fear,  the 
fear  that  throttles  and  paralyses.  It  has  to  be 
conquered,  and,  finally,  one  does  conquer  it. 

Apart  from  the  necessity  of  living  as  well  as 


THE  RETREAT  169 

can  possibly  be  managed,  the  greatest  discip- 
linary factors  in  the  life  of  a  soldier  under  fire 
are  a  sense  of  duty  and  a  respect  for  other 
people's  opinion — in  a  word,  honour.  This  is 
not  a  discovery;  it  is  merely  a  personal  opin- 
ion. 

It  must  also  be  confessed  that  this  training 
in  courage  is  far  more  easy  for  us  than  for  the 
foot-soldiers — the  least  fortunate  of  all  the 
fighting  forces.  A  gunner  under  fire  is  literally 
unable  to  run  away.  The  whole  battery 
would  see  him — his  dishonour  would  be  palp- 
able, irretrievable.  Now  fear,  in  its  more 
acute  manifestations,  seems  to  me  necessarily 
to  imply  annihilation  of  will-power.  A  man 
incapable  of  controlling  himself  sufficiently  to 
face  danger  bravely  will,  in  the  majority  of 
cases,  be  equally  incapable  of  facing  'the  in- 
tolerable shame  of  public  flight.  Flight  of 
this  kind  would  necessitate  an  exercise  of  will 
— almost  a  kind  of  bravery.  The  infantry- 
man is  often  isolated  when  under  fire;  when 
the  shrapnel  bullets  are  humming  above  him 
a  man  lying  down  at  a  distance  of  four  yards 
from  another  is  virtually  alone.  Concern  for 
his  own  safety  monopolises  all  his  faculties 
and  he  may  succumb  to  the  temptation  to  stop 
and  lie  low,  or  to  sneak  off  to  one  side 
and  then  take  to  flight.  When  he  rejoins  his 


170  MY  '75 

company  in  the  evening  he  may  declare  that 
he  lost  his  squad  or  that  he  fought  elsewhere. 
Perhaps  he  is  not  believed,  and  possibly  he 
was  aware  beforehand  that  no  one  would 
believe  him;  but  at  least  he  will  have  escaped 
the  intolerable  ignominy  of  running  away 
before  the  eyes  of  all. 

To  remain  under  fire  is  by  no  means  easy, 
but  to  keep  cool  in  the  heat  of  a  modern 
engagement  is  harder  still.  At  first  fear  makes 
one  perspire  and  tremble.  It  is  irresistible. 
Death  seems  inevitable.  The  danger  is  un- 
known, and  is  magnified  a  thousandfold  by 
the  imagination.  One  makes  no  attempt  to 
analyse  it.  The  bursting  of  the  shells  and 
their  acrid  smoke  together  with  the  shrapnel 
are  the  main  causes  of  the  first  feeling  of  ter- 
ror. And  yet  neither  the  flashes  of  melinite, 
nor  the  noise  of  the  explosions,  nor  the  smoke 
are  the  real  danger;  but  they  accompany  the 
danger,  and  at  first  one  is  attacked  by  all 
three  at  once.  Soon,  however,  one  learns  to 
discriminate.  The  smoke  is  harmless,  and  the 
whistling  of  the  shells  indicates  in  what  di- 
rection they  are  coming.  One  no  longer 
crouches  down  unnecessarily,  and  only  seeks 
shelter  knowingly,  when  it  is  imperative  to  do 
so.  Danger  no  longer  masters  but  is  mastered. 
That  is  the  great  difference. 


THE  RETREAT  171 

In  order  to  form  an  exact  idea  of  the  effects 
of  a  shell,  I  went  with  Hutin  to  examine  a 
field  full  of  Jerusalem  artichokes  in  which  a 
heavy  projectile  had  just  fallen.  In  the  centre 
of  the  field  we  found  a  funnel-shaped  hole 
about  ten  yards  in  diameter,  so  regular  in 
shape  that  it  could  only  have  been  made  by  a 
howitzer  shell.  This  kind  of  projectile  strikes 
the  ground  almost  perpendicularly,  and  buries 
itself  deep  in  the  soft  soil,  throwing  up  enor- 
mous quantities  of  earth  as  it  bursts.  Many 
of  the  steel  splinters  are  lost  in  the  depths  of 
the  ground,  and  the  murderous  cone  of  dis- 
persion is  thereby  proportionately  reduced. 

The  truth  of  this  can  be  easily  confirmed. 
In  the  present  case  the  farther  we  went  from 
the  hole  the  higher  was  the  point  at  which  the 
artichokes  had  been  shorn  off,  and  at  a  dozen 
paces  or  so  from  the  edge  of  the  crater  the 
shrapnel  had  only  reached  the  heads  of  the 
highest  stems.  It  follows  therefore  that  a 
man  lying  very  near  the  point  of  impact 
would  probably  not  have  been  hit.  Next 
came  a  circular  zone  which  was  entirely 
unscathed,  but  a  little  farther  on  the  falling 
bullets  and  splinters  had  mown  off  leaves  and 
stems,  and  a  man  lying  down  here  would  have 
risked  quite  as  much  as  if  he  had  remained 
standing. 


172  MY  -75 

When  thus  coldly  examined  a  shell  loses  much 
of  its  moral  effect. 

The  actual  organisation  of  the  artillery  also 
stimulates  a  gunner's  courage.  The  foot- 
soldier,  cavalryman,  and  sapper  are  units  in 
themselves,  whereas  for  us  the  only  unit  is 
the  gun.  The  seven  men  serving  it  are  the 
closely  connected,  interdependent  organs  of  a 
living  thing — the  gun  in  action. 

In  consequence  of  the  links  existing  between 
the  seven  men  among  themselves  and  between 
each  of  them  and  the  gun,  any  faint-heartedness 
is  rendered  more  obvious,  its  consequences 
much  greater,  and  the  shame  it  bears  in  its 
wake  more  crushing.  Moreover,  in  this  com- 
plete solidarity  the  effluvia  which  create 
psychological  contagion  are  easily  developed; 
one  or  two  gunners  who  stick  resolutely  and 
calmly  to  their  posts  are  often  able  to  inspire 
the  whole  detachment  with  courage. 

To-day  was  a  day  of  undisturbed  quiet. 
Over  towards  Tailly  and  Stenay  nothing 
revealed  the  presence  of  the  enemy. 

When  evening  approached  we  were  again 
sent  off  to  encamp  on  the  other  side  of  the 
woods.  There  was  a  glorious  summer  sunset, 
and  through  the  dark  depths  of  the  trees  the 
road  opened  up  a  mysterious  avenue  at  the  end 


THE  RETREAT  173 

of  which  glowed  a  western  sky  more  varied  in 
hues  than  a  rainbow. 

All  sound  of  battle  had  ceased.  Gradually 
the  sky  darkened  and  night  fell.  As  yester- 
day, the  artillery  rolled  monotonously  on 
through  the  shadowy  woods. 

One  by  one  the  stars  were  veiled  by  a  rising 
mist,  and  the  sky  became  opalescent  with  a 
nocturnal  luminosity  that  flooded  the  stretches 
of  the  forest,  which,  from  the  crests  of  the  hills, 
could  be  seen  rising  and  falling  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  But  underneath  the  trees 
the  darkness  was  intense,  and  the  road  would 
have  seemed  a  trench  dug  deep  in  the  earth 
itself  but  for  an  occasional  infantry  bivouac, 
the  embers  of  which  glowed  faintly  through 
the  brushwood,  and  but  for  a  damp  scent  of 
mint  and  other  herbs  which  rose  from  the 
dark  undergrowth  mingled  with  a  certain 
sensuous  smell  of  animality.  We  were  sur- 
rounded by  a  delicious  freshness  with  which 
we  filled  our  lungs  and  which  made  us  shiver 
slightly. 

Millon,  who  was  sitting  next  to  me  on  the 
limber-box,  told  me  the  story  of  his  life.  It 
was  a  sad  and  simple  history.  Only  twenty, 
with  his  girl's  face  and  roguish  yet  infantile 
eyes,  he  had  nevertheless  long  been  the  bread- 
winner of  a  family,  and  now  his  mother — 


174  MY  -75 

"my  old  mother"  as  he  said  in  a  tone  full  of 
deep  affection — had  been  left  alone  in  Paris 
with  another  child,  still  very  young,  whose  del- 
icate constitution  and  highly  strung  nerves  were 
the  cause  of  continual  alarm.  He  told 
me  of  past  misfortunes  still  fresh  in  his 
memory,  of  the  present  anxiety  of  his  people 
in  Paris,  and  of  material  worries. 

"Ah,"  he  sighed,  "if  only  my  old  mother 
could  see  me  to-night,  safe  and  sound  on  the 
limber!" 

In  the  field  where  the  battery  halted  we 
had  almost  to  fight  in  order  to  get  a  few 
armfuls  of  straw.  The  gunners  of  a  battery 
which  had  arrived  before  us  had  stretched 
themselves  out  haphazard  on  a  fallen  hay- 
rick. They  had  twenty  times  more  straw  than 
they  needed,  but  when  we  tried  to  pull  a 
little  from  under  them  the  awakening  of  the 
overwrought  sleepers  was  terrifying.  They 
shouted,  cursed,  and  threatened.  Finally  they 
fell  asleep  again,  growling  and  grunting  under 
their  breath  like  a  pack  of  surly  dogs. 

Monday,  August  31 

The  guns  awoke  us  early,  and  we  prepared 
to  return  to  meet  the  enemy.  About  seven 
o'clock  we  found  ourselves  back  in  Tailly, 


THE  RETREAT  175 

where  we  learnt  that  the  day  before  the 
enemy  had  been  pushed  back  as  far  as  the 
Meuse,  and  that  Beauclair  and  Halles  were 
now  entirely  in  French  hands. 

Standing  in  column  of  route  in  the  village 
we  awaited  orders.  The  German  artillery  be- 
gan to  bombard  the  neighbouring  hills. 

In  the  market-place  was  a  hay-cart  in 
which  were  lying  three  wounded  Uhlans.  A 
doctor,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  was  walking 
up  and  down  in  front  of  the  cart.  Some 
women  and  children  were  standing  round 
them  in  a  group,  silently  contemplating  the 
Germans.  One  or  two  of  the  gunners  joined 
them  out  of  curiosity.  The  Uhlans  looked  at 
them  with  sad  and  troubled  blue  eyes. 

"They  aren't  such  an  ugly  set  as  I  should 
have  thought,"  declared  Tuvache. 

"No?"  said  Millon.  "I  suppose  you  thought 
they  had  got  a  third  eye  in  the  middle  of  their 
foreheads,  like  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon  I" 

Tuvache  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"No,  only  I  had  an  idea  they  were  uglier. 
They  don't  look  as  bad  as  all  that!" 

There  was  severe  fighting  this  morning  in 
the  Beauclair  Gap,  through  which  the  enemy 
tried  to  force  a  passage.  The  incessant  din 


176  MY  -75 

of  the  battle  sounded  from  afar  like  the  rising 

tide  beating  on  a  rocky  shore. 

"Forward!    Trot!" 

After  having  proceeded  some  three  hundred 
yards  down  the  Beauclair  road  we  again 
halted.  Soldiers  were  coming  back  from  the 
lines,  some  of  them  wounded  in  the  hands  or 
arms,  and  others  in  the  shoulders.  All  of 
them  were  bandaged.  They  stopped  to  ask 
us  for  water  or  cigarettes,  and  we  exchanged 
a  few  words  with  them: 

"Are  we  advancing?" 

"No,  but  we  are  holding  our  ground.  It 
is  their  machine-guns  that  are  the  trouble. 
They're  just  awful!" 

"Are  you  in  pain?" 

"No  I" 

"What  does  it  feel  like,  a  bullet?" 

"It  burns  a  bit,  but  it  doesn't  hurt 
much." 

Some  others,  wounded  in  the  leg,  began  to 
pass  by.  These  were  evidently  in  great  pain. 
They  were  perspiring  with  fatigue  and  heat, 
for  the  sun,  now  in  the  zenith,  was  beating 
straight  down  in  the  hollow  through  which 
the  road  wound.  Many  were  helping  them- 
selves along  by  the  aid  of  sticks  cut  from  the 
hedges. 

An  officer's  horse  went  by,  led  by  a  stretcher- 


THE  RETREAT  177 

bearer  and  bearing  a  foot-soldier  whose  thigh 
had  been  broken  by  a  shell.  The  wounded 
man  was  clutching  the  animal's  mane  with  both 
hands,  his  right  leg  hanging  helpless.  Just 
above  the  knee  was  a  rent  in  his  breeches 
through  which  the  blood  flowed  freely,  running 
down  to  his  boot  and  dripping  thence  to  the 
ground.  His  eyes  were  closed  and  his  blood- 
shot eyelids,  pale  lips,  and  the  red  beard  cov- 
ering his  long,  bony  jaws,  made  him  look  like 
one  crucified. 

"Can  you  manage  to  hold  out?"  asked  the 
stretcher-bearer. 

"Are  we  still  far  from  the  ambulance?" 
"No,  not  far  now.    If  you  feel  faint  let  me 
know  and  I'll  put  you  down.      Does  it  hurt 
much?" 

"Yes,   and  it's  bleeding.  .  .  .  Look  at  the 
blood  on  the  road!" 

"That's  nothing.  Hold  on  to  the  mane!" 
An  ambulance  passed  full  of  seriously 
wounded.  Instead  of  being  laid  down  they 
had  been  propped  up  against  the  sides  of  the 
carriage  so  that  it  should  hold  more.  Under 
the  green  tilt  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  one  man 
with  a  face  the  colour  of  white  marble  whose 
head  was  rolling  on  his  shoulders,  and  of  an- 
other who  was  streaming  with  blood.  A 
huge  and  swarthy  corporal  was  sharing  the 


178  MY  -75 

box  with  the  driver.  His  gun  between  his 
knees  and  one  hand  on  his  hip,  he  was  sitting 
bolt  upright  with  a  grave  and  determined  air, 
his  head  enveloped  in  a  turban  of  crimson  lint. 
Blood  was  trickling  into  his  Bright  eye, 
which,  in  its  red-rimmed  orbit,  looked  strangely 
white,  and  from  thence  ran  down  his  drooping 
moustache,  matting  the  hairs  of  his  beard,  and 
finally  dropping  on  to  his  broad  chest  in  black 
splashes  and  streams. 

One  of  the  wounded  who  had  been  waiting 
for  a  long  time,  sitting  by  the  roadside,  caught 
hold  of  a  carriage  which  dragged  him  on. 

"Please  stop  and  let  me  get  up !" 

"We've  no  more  room,  I'm  afraid  1" 

"I  can't  walk." 

"But  as  you  see  we're  full  up  1" 

"Can't  I  get  on  the  step?" 

"Yes,  if  you  can  manage  it!" 

But  the  vehicle  still  went  on.  A  gunner 
helped  the  man  on  to  the  step. 

At  the  end  of  a  sunken  road,  in  the  shade 
of  some  tall  poplars  with  dense  foliage  which 
the  sun  only  penetrated  in  places,  two  Medical 
Corps  officers  had  improvised  a  sort  of  operat- 
ing-table on  trestles.  Some  wounded  laid  out 
on  the  slope  were  waiting  their  turn  to  be 
bandaged.  Among  the  stones  a  thin,  dark-col- 
oured stream  of  water  was  flowing,  partially 


THE  RETREAT  179 

washing  -away  the  pools  of  blood  and  bits  of 
red-stained  cotton-wool  and  linen.  The  air  was 
pervaded  by  a  stale  odour  like  that  of  a 
chemist's  shop,  mingled  with  the  damp  smell 
of  running  water. 

A  Captain  was  brought  up  in  a  stretcher,  on 
both  sides  of  which  his  arms  hung  limply 
riown.  A  hospital  orderly  cut  off  the  sleeves 
of  his  tunic,  and  he  was  then  placed  on  the 
operating-table.  He  was  an  ugly  sight  as  he 
lay  there  with  his  blood-stained  bare  arms  and 
his  sleeveless  blue  tunic  encircling  his  body. 
While  his  wounds  were  being  dressed  he  gave 
long-drawn  sighs  of  pain. 

"Right  about  wheel!" 

We  set  off  up  a  steep  incline  across  the  fields 
to  take  up  position  on  the  heights  overlooking 
the  Beauclair  Gap  and  the  road  we  had  just 
left.  The  battery  was  backed  by  a  spur  of 
the  hills  which  hid  Tailly  from  view  except 
for  the  spire  of  the  steeple,  surmounted  by  a 
weather-cock,  which  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the 
earth  behind  us. 

In  this  position  we  were  visible  to  the  enemy 
through  the  V-shaped  gap  between  the  hills 
commanding  the  Meuse.  We  could  see  the 
woods  and  fields  beyond  Beauclair  occu- 
pied by  the  Germans,  and  which  the  French 


i8o  MY  -75 

batteries  ahead  of  us  were  covering  with  shrap- 
nel shell  from  behind  the  sheltering 
ridges.  In  the  fields  in  the  distance  the 
German  infantry  debouching  from  the  woods 
looked  like  an  army  of  black  insects  on  a 
bright  green  lawn.  We  immediately  opened 
fire,  and  under  our  shells  the  enemy  hastily 
regained  the  woods,  which  we  then  began  to 
bombard. 

The  action  seemed  to  be  going  favourably 
for  us  this  morning.  Some  French  batteries 
had  advanced  by  the  Beauclair  road  and  were 
now  engaged  in  the  gap.  On  the  hills  sur- 
rounding us  in  a  semicircle  other  batteries 
which,  like  ours,  had  taken  up  positions  on 
the  counterslope,  and  others  still  farther  off, 
near  the  hills  directly  above  the  Meuse, 
thundered  incessantly,  the  position  of  the 
invisible  guns  being  revealed  by  clouds  of  dust 
and  flashes  of  fire  showing  up  against  the 
greenery.  The  firing  of  these  batteries  was  so 
violent  that  little  by  little  the  air  became 
cloudy.  An  acrid  atmosphere  of  smoke  and 
dust  invaded  the  valley,  in  which  the  number- 
less echoes  multiplied  the  roar  of  the  guns  as 
the  sound-waves  met  and  intermingled.  We 
were  surrounded  by  a  loud  and  continual  hum- 
ming and  buzzing  which  deafened  us  and  al- 
most paralysed  our  other  senses. 


THE  RETREAT  181 

"Cease  firing!" 

The  detachments  became  motionless  round 
the  guns.  It  was  already  midday. 

Suddenly  the  enemy  began  to  bombard 
Tailly  and  the  pine-woods  commanding  our 
position.  Some  limbers  which  since  the  early 
morning  had  been  waiting  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  woods  moved  off  hurriedly.  A  section  of 
infantry  emerged  from  the  smoke  of  a  high- 
explosive  shell. 

"Take  cover!"  ordered  Captain  de  Brisoult. 

The  fire  of  the  French  artillery  gradually 
slackened.  A  volley  of  shrapnel  shells  burst 
over  the  valley  where  our  teams  were  waiting 
for  us,  and  a  fuse  sang  loud  and  long  through 
the  air.  Nobody  seemed  to  be  wounded.  The 
limbers  standing  motionless  in  the  sunshine 
made  a  black  square  on  the  grass. 

The  enemy  appeared  to  have  registered  the 
position  of  a  battery  installed  on  the  other 
side  of  the  pine-woods,  and,  under  a  perfect 
hail  of  howitzer  shells,  the  guns  were  brought 
back  one  by  one  through  the  woods. 

Hutin,  who  had  taken  shelter  behind  the 
shield,  suddenly  stood  up  in  order  to  see.  He 
crossed  his  arms. 

"Yes,  that's  it!"  he  growled. 

"What  is  it?     But  take  cover  1" 

I  pulled  them  by  the  coat. 


1 82  ~  MY  -75 

"That's  it  1     Retreat!    Oh,  my  God!" 

I  also  stood  up.  Sure  enough,  sections  of 
infantry  were  crossing  the  ridges  and  falling 
back. 

"Take  cover,  you  idiots!"  yelled  Brejard. 

A  shell  swooped  down.  The  splinters  whis- 
tled through  the  air  and  the  displaced  earth 
pattered  round  us  on  the  dry  field.  I 
had  stooped  down  instinctively,  but  Hutin  had 
not  moved,  being  too  much  occupied  in 
observing  the  retreat  of  the  infantry,  which 
was  becoming  more  general  every  moment. 

"There  you  are,"  said  he,  "now  it  will  be 
our  turn.  ...  I  bet  ...  we  shall  retire,  too. 
.  .  .  Here's  an  Ordnance  Officer  coming  up. 
.  .  .  Oh,  if  we're  always  going  to  retire  like 
that  we  may  as  well  take  a  train!" 

As  he  had  suspected,  the  officer  brought 
orders  for  us  to  retreat.  The  teams  trotted 
up  the  slope  to  join  the  guns.  The  moment 
was  critical,  and,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
the  first  gun,  in  position  on  the  counterslope, 
began  to  roll  downhill  as  soon  as  the  spade, 
which  had  been  solidly  jammed  in  the  ground 
by  the  recoil,  had  been  pulled  out.  It  took 
eight  of  us  to  drag  the  gun  back,  and  at  every 
instant  we  asked  ourselves  whether  we  should 
succeed  in  assembling  the  train.  The  drivers 


THE  RETREAT  183 

began  to  lose  their  nerve,  and  backed  the 
horses  at  random,  this  way  and  that. 

"Now  then,  all  together.  .  .  .  Whoa,  there, 
whoa!  .  .  .  Steady!  .  .  .  Whoa  back!" 

A  final  pull,  and  we  had  limbered  up. 

"Ready!" 

The  team  started. 

Beyond  the  village  of  Tailly  the  hill  we  had 
to  ascend  in  order  to  reach  the  plateau  was 
very  steep,  especially  where  the  road  skirted 
the  stone  wall  of  the  cemetery. 

Some  foot-soldiers  resting  on  both  sides  of 
the  way  had  taken  off  their  packs  and  piled 
arms.  Sitting  in  the  grass  they  watched  us 
go  by  with  that  absent  and  stupefied  look 
peculiar  to  men  just  returned  from  the  firing- 
line.  Suddenly  a  shrapnel  shell,  the  whistling 
approach  of  which  had  been  drowned  by  the 
rumble  of  the  vehicles,  burst  above  the 
cemetery.  Some  of  the  soldiers  promptly 
dived  into  the  ditch,  and  others  fell  on  their 
knees  close  to  the  wall,  shielding  their  heads 
with  their  packs.  Two  men,  who  had  re- 
mained standing,  stupidly  hid  their  heads  in 
the  thick  hedge.  On  the  limbers  we  bent  our 
shoulders  and  the  drivers  whipped  up  the 
horses. 

At  one  point  the   road  was  visible  to  the 


184  MY  -75 

enemy,  but  when  we  discovered  this  it  was  al- 
ready too  late  to  stop. 

A  volley  of  shells.  .  .  .  Over!  We  had  es- 
caped by  a  hair's  breadth. 

We  formed  up  ready  for  action  in  the  same 
position  as  the  day  before,  overlooking  the 
neighbouring  ridges,  where  the  tall  poplars 
served  as  aiming-points.  The  third  battery, 
which  had  been  with  us  on  the  Saturday,  had 
opened  up  some  fine  trenches  here.  But  the 
limbers  had  hardly  had  time  to  range  up  on  the 
edge  of  a  copse  when  high-explosive  shell  be- 
gan to  fall  round  us. 

How  had  the  enemy  been  able  to  discover 
our  new  position?  We  were  carefully  covered, 
and  were  invisible  to  him  on  all  sides,  nor  had 
we  yet  fired  a  single  shot,  so  that  our  presence 
had  not  been  betrayed  by  smoke  or  flashes.  No 
aeroplane  was  in  the  sky.  Then  how  had  we 
been  seen?  .  .  . 

We  sheltered  in  the  trenches. 

"It  isn't  at  us  that  they're  firing,"  said 
Hutin. 

"Then  what  are  they  firing  at?" 

"I  think  we've  got  to  thank  those  fat  old 
dragoons  they  saw  passing  on  the  road  for  this! 
They're  aiming  at  the  road." 

But  the  dragoons  got  farther  and  farther 
away,  and  the  enemy  continued  to  .fire  in  our 


THE  RETREAT  185 

direction.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  was 
aware  that  there  was  a  battery  in  position  here. 
Had  we  been  betrayed  by  signal  by  a  spy  hid- 
ing somewhere  behind  us?  I  carefully  scruti- 
nised the  surrounding  country,  but  could  see 
nothing. 

Some  shells  fell  a  few  yards  off  the  guns, 
smothering  the  battery  in  smoke  and  dust,  and 
shaking  us  at  the  bottom  of  our  trenches.  I 
heard  the  Major  shout: 

"Take  cover  on  the  right!" 

While  the  Captain  and  Lieutenant  remained 
at  their  observation-posts  the  gunners  hurriedly 
moved  out  of  the  line  of  fire  of  the  howitzers. 
But  as  we  ran  along  the  road  across  the  fields 
in  view  of  the  enemy  a  Staff  passed  by.  I  was 
seized  with  sudden  anger.  The  horsemen 
would  get  us  killed!  The  party  consisted  of 
about  twenty  officers  in  whose  centre  rode  a 
General,  a  little,  thin  man  with  grey  hair.  A 
gaily  coloured  troop  of  blue  and  red  Chas- 
seurs followed  them.  The  scream  of  approach- 
ing shells  at  once  made  itself  heard,  and 
thrilled  long  in  the  air.  The  Chasseurs  and 
officers  saluted,  but  the  little  General  made  no 
movement.  This  time  the  enemy  had  fired  too 
low. 

"To  your  guns!" 


i86  MY  -75 

The  Captain  thought  he  had  discovered  the 
battery  bombarding  us : 

"Layers!"  he  called. 

Feverishly,  beneath  the  shells,  we  prepared 
for  action. 

"Echelon  at  fifteen.  First  gun,  a  hundred 
and  fifty;  second  gun,  a  hundred  and  sixty-five. 
.  .  .  Third  .  .  ." 

The  fuse-setters  repeated  the  corrector  and 
the  range. 

"Sixteen.  .  .  .  Three  thousand  five  hun- 
dred. .  .  ." 

"In  threes,  traverse  1  By  the  right,  each 
battery!  .  .  ." 

"First  gun  .  .  .  firel  .  .  .  Second  .  .  ." 

The  rapid  movements  of  serving  the  guns 
electrified  us.  In  the  deafening  din  made  by 
the  battery  in  full  action  orders  had  to  be 
shouted.  We  no  longer  heard  the  enemy's  guns; 
they  were  silenced  by  the  roar  of  our  own.  We 
forgot  the  shrapnel,  which  nevertheless  con- 
tinued to  fall. 

Suddenly  the  howitzer  fire  slackened,  and 
then  ceased. 

"They're  getting  hit!"  said  Hutin,  bending 
over  the  sighting  gear. 

"Fire!"  answered  the  No.  I. 

"Ready!" 

"Fire!  .      .  Fire!  .      ." 


THE  RETREAT  187 

On  the  plateau  behind  us  companies  were 
retiring  in  extended  order. 

Night  fell.  We  also  received  orders  to 
retire.  It  seemed  as  if  the  earth  and  the  woods 
were  absorbing  such  light  as  was  left.  The 
movements  of  the  infantry  in  the  distance 
were  lost  in  the  undulations  of  the  ground. 
The  men  seemed  to  become  incorporated  with 
the  fields,  and  dissolved,  disappearing  from 
view. 

Near  a  dark  shell-crater  lay  a  red  heap.  A 
soldier  was  lying  stretched  on  his  back,  one  of 
his  legs  blown  off  by  a  shell,  leaving  a  torn, 
bluish-red  stump  through  which  he  had 
emptied  his  veins.  The  lucerne  leaves  and 
earth  under  hirr?  were  glued  together  with 
blood.  The  man's  head  had  been  thrown 
back  in  his  agony,  and  the  Adam's  apple 
jutted  out  amid  the  distended  muscles  of  his 
neck.  His  glassy  eyes  were  wide  open,  and 
his  lips  dead  white.  He  still  grasped  his 
broken  rifle,  and  his  kepi  had  rolled  underneath 
his  shoulder. 

Tuesday,  September  I 

A  long  night  march.  It  was  past  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning  when  at  last  we  halted,  and 
we  still  had  to  make  our  soup,  water  the  horses 


i88  MY  -75 

and  give  them  their  oats.     This  done,  we  fell 

into  a  deep  sleep. 

About  four  o'clock  the  sergeant  on  duty  came 
and  shook  us  one  by  one.  He  was  greeted  with 
growls. 

"Alarm!" 

"What  misery !  Can't  we  even  sleep  for  an 
hour!" 

It  was  veritable  torture  to  keep  our  eyes 
open.  Our  limbs  were  stiff,  our  heads  heavy, 
and  our  loins  ached.  The  weather  was  foggy 
and  cold. 

We  clambered  on  to  the  limbers  and  started 
off.  Numbness  at  once  seized  our  feet  and 
then  our  knees,  mounting  rapidly.  Our  heads 
rolled  from  side  to  side,  and  we  gradually  lost 
consciousness.  Some  of  the  drivers  were 
sleeping  on  their  horses.  They  slipped  more 
and  more  to  one  side  and,  just  as  they  were 
about  to  fall,  were  awakened  by  instinct  and 
sat  straight  up  in  the  saddle  again.  But  a 
moment  after  one  could  see  them  through  the 
gloom,  once  more  subsiding  and  gradually  slip- 
ping, slipping  .  .  . 

Where  were  we  going  to?  Perhaps  the  army 
had  been  obliged  to  fall  back  below  Verdun, 
because  the  enemy,  who  had  undoubtedly  got 
a  footing  on  the  hills  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Meuse,  near  Stenay,  was  threatening  their  left 


THE  RETREAT  189 

flank.  But  we  knew  nothing  for  certain,  and 
were  too  tired  to  think,  too  tired  even  to  fear! 
Each  man's  one  desire  was  to  sleep  a  whole 
day  through. 

At  daybreak  we  halted  near  Landres  in  a 
sloping  field  full  of  plum-trees.  Unless  coun- 
ter-orders arrived  we  were  to  stay  there  and 
rest  for  twenty-four  hours. 

We  lit  fires  and  started  shaking  the  plum- 
trees. 

Suddenly  a  cry  broke  out: 

"The  postmaster!" 

It  was  answered  by  a  hoarse — almost  savage 
— shout,  and  the  men  literally  mobbed  the 
Petty  Officer  who  was  carrying  a  sackful  of  let- 
ters. 

News  at  last!  Some  of  the  letters  had  been 
on  the  way  for  a  fortnight;  ours,  it  seemed, 
were  not  being  delivered.  What  anxiety  the 
people  at  home  were  in ! 

After  we  had  read  our  correspondence  Hutin 
called  me : 

"Are  you  coming  to  wash  your  linen?" 

"Yes." 

We  hung  up  our  tunics  on  the  low-hanging 
branches  of  the  plum-trees,  and,  our  shirts  under 
our  arms  and  with  bodies  bare  save  for  our 
braces,  walked  down  to  the  river. 

We  spent  a  quiet  morning  eating,  smoking, 


190  MY  -75 

and  writing.  At  midday  the  short,  sharp  re- 
ports of  the  -75's  began  to  sound  on  the  next 
range  of  hills.  At  one  o'clock  we  received 
orders  to  advance  and  support  a  group  of  ar- 
tillery engaged  on  the  heights  north  of  Lan- 
dres. 

Hardly  had  we  taken  up  position  when 
an  aeroplane  passed  overhead.  A  German 
machine,  evidently;  so  far  we  had  seen  no 
others.  Almost  immediately  afterwards  shells 
began  to  fall  around  us,  but  again,  as  if  by 
a  miracle,  the  battery  remained  unscathed  in 
the  middle  of  the  bursting  shrapnel  and  the 
smoke  of  melinite.  But  that  would  not  always 
happen ! 

Ah!  if  only  I  escape  the  hecatomb,  how  I 
shall  appreciate  life !  I  never  imagined  that 
there  could  be  an  intense  joy  in  breathing,  in 
opening  one's  eyes  to  the  light,  in  letting  it 
penetrate  one,  in  being  hot,  in  being  cold — 
even  in  suffering.  I  thought  that  only  certain 
hours  had  any  value,  and  heedlessly  let  the 
others  slip  past.  If  I  see  the  end  of  this  war, 
I  shall  know  how  to  suck  from  each  moment 
its  full  meed  of  pleasure,  and  feel  each  second 
of  life  as  it  passes  by,  like  some  deliciously 
cool  water  trickling  between  one's  fingers.  I 
almost  fancy  that  I  shall  continually  pause,  in- 


THE  RETREAT  191 

terrupting  a  phrase  or  suspending  a  gesture,  and 
tell  myself  again  and  again:  "I  live!  I 
live!" 

And  to  think  that  in  a  few  moments,  perhaps, 
I  shall  only  be  a  shapeless  mass  of  bleeding  flesh 
at  the  bottom  of  a  shell-hole! 

There  was  nothing  to  do  under  the  shrapnel- 
fire.  The  Captain  surveyed  the  plain  with  ex- 
asperating calmness. 

Presently  the  enemy  increased  his  range,  and 
the  shells  passed  overhead  and  burst  in  the  val- 
ley, on  a  road  where  we  could  see  first  lines  of 
wagons  making  off  at  a  gallop  in  thick  clouds  of 
dust. 

Orders  arrived.  .  .  .  We  were  to  return  to 
Landres. 

A  deep  hole  had  been  made  in  the  road  by 
a  shell,  and  near-by  lay  the  hashed  remains  of 
a  horse — a  limbless,  decapitated  body.  The 
head,  lying  on  the  edge  of  the  ditch,  and 
apparently  intact,  seemed  to  be  looking  at 
this  body  with  a  surprised  expression  in  its 
big,  still  unclouded  eyes.  A  shred  of  flesh  and 
chestnut  skin  had  been  blown  to  the  top 
of  a  neighbouring  slope.  The  shell  crater,  in 
which  lay  the  intestines  surrounded  with 
purple  blood  rapidly  blackening  in  the  sun, 
exhaled  a  smell  of  decay  and  excrement 


-75 

— a    sickening   odour   which   nearly   made    us 
ill. 

It  seemed  that  the  senior  Petty  Officer  who 
had  been  riding  this  horse  had  escaped  without 
a  scratch. 

A  regiment  of  Chasseurs  was  slowly  descend- 
ing the  high  hill  overlooking  Landres  on  the 
north-east. 

The  setting  sun  no  longer  lit  up  the  depths 
of  the  valley  where  we  had  parked  our  guns, 
but,  by  contrast,  illuminated  the  more 
magnificently  the  steep  incline  down  which 
the  red  and  blue  squadrons  were  descending 
in  good  order,  their  drawn  sabres  glinting  in 
the  gorgeous  orange-coloured  light.  The  Chas- 
seurs passed  close  by  us,  and  then  rode  up 
the  opposite  side  of  the  valley  towards  the 
sun,  whose  red  disk  still  peeped  over  the  hill- 
top. As  they  crossed  the  summit  the  horse- 
men were  silhouetted  for  a  moment  against  the 
horizon. 

I  was  tired  out,  and  in  spite  of  my  efforts 
began  to  fall  asleep.  I  had  the  impression  that 
in  order  to  keep  awake  I  should  have  to  adopt 
the  attitude  of  the  sentries  of  old — one  finger 
raised,  commanding  silence. 

Wednesday,  September  2 
Last  night  the  horses  were  not  unharnessed, 


THE  RETREAT  193 

and  we  ourselves  had  hardly  four  hours'  sleep 
on  the  bare  ground,  where  it  is  so  difficult  to 
get  proper  rest. 

It  was  still  dark  when  we  set  off  again,  down 
a  road  flanked  with  dense  woods.  The  night 
was  dark  and  filled  with  weird,  grey  shadows 
cast  by  the  first,  almost  imperceptible  rays 
of  the  pallid  dawn.  I  was  drowsing  on  the 
shaking  ammunition  wagon,  to  which  one 
becomes  accustomed  after  a  time,  when  I  was 
awakened  by  the  crackling  of  broken  wood  and 
the  heavy  thud  of  a  fall.  I  looked  about  me, 
but  saw  nothing.  Then,  through  the  rumbling 
of  the  wheels,  I  fancied  I  heard  a  plaintive  cry 
mingled  with  sobs.  Yes.  ...  I  now  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  clear  voice  of  a  little  girl, 
calling: 

"Mother!    Mother!" 

On  a  heap  of  stones  by  the  roadside  I  was 
now  able  to  see  the  wheel  of  an  overturned 
cart,  a  human  form  on  the  ground,  and  round 
it  the  shadows  of  kneeling  children. 

Some  more  sobs;  then  the  little  voice  called 
again : 

"Mother!  Mother!  .  .  .  Oh,  mother,  do 
answer!" 

The  column  continued  on  its  way.  A  con- 
vulsive, heartrending  wail,  rising  from  a  throat 


194  MY  -75 

choked   by   anguish,    seemed    to    echo    in    my 

breast: 

"Mother!" 

We  should  have  liked  to  stop,  to  make  in- 
quiries, and  help  if  we  could.  There  were 
several  children.  Had  their  mother  fainted? 
Perhaps.  Was  there  a  man  with  them?  Sup- 
pose there  was  not!  ...  I  was  sorely  tempted 
to  jump  down  from  the  ammunition  wagon  and 
run  back,  but  I  knew  that  I  should  not  be  able 
to  rejoin  the  battery.  A  horseman  dismounted, 
saying: 

"I'll  stop  the  medical  officer  when  he 
comes  up.  .  .  .  We'll  catch  you  up  at  the 
trot!" 

We  were  carried  on  by  the  slow-marching 
column.  So  great  was  the  horror  of  that 
which  had  happened  on  the  side  of  the  road 
that  I  was  kept  awake  despite  my  weariness, 
and  saw  the  daylight  slowly  creeping  in.  I 
think  I  shall  always  hear  that  little  voice  cry- 
ing "Mother!"  and  the  sound  of  the  children's 
sobs  in  the  grey  dawn. 

On  reaching  the  main  road  we  had  to  halt 
and  let  the  infantry  of  the  7th  Division  pass. 
The  Army  Corps  was  retiring.  Some  one  said 
that  we  were  going  to  embark. 

To  embark!    Why?    To  go  where?    It  ap- 


THE  RETREAT  195 

peared  that  we  had  been  relieved  on  the  Meuse 
by  fresh  troops,  and  that  the  4th  Corps  was 
to  be  re-formed. 

We  were  going  to  rest,  then — to  sleep !  But 
we  had  heard  that  so  often  during  the  last  eight 
days!  Could  we  believe  it?  And  yet  it  must 
be  true,  for  this  part  of  the  country  would 
surely  not  be  left  defenceless. 

Down  the  road,  wave  upon  wave,  with 
the  swishing  noise  of  open  sluices,  battalion 
succeeded  battalion.  The  soldiers  seemed 
fairly  cheerful;  there  were  even  some  who 
sang. 

The  loist  Infantry  swung  by. 

"Is  the  iO2nd  behind  you?"  asked 
Tuvache. 

"Yes." 

"I  ask  because  my  brother  is  in  it." 

The  long  column  still  filed  by.  At  last,  sev- 
eral minutes  later,  the  brother  arrived. 

"Hi!    Tuvache!" 

One  of  the  men  turned  round : 

"Hallo!     It's  you!" 

The  two  brothers  simply  shook  hands,  but 
their  joy  at  meeting  again  could  be  read  in  their 
eyes. 

"So  you're  all  right?" 

"Yes,  and  you?" 

"As  you  see  ...  quite  all  right.'* 


196  MY  -75 

"I'm  glad.  .  .  ." 

"Had  any  news  from  home  ?" 

"Yes,  yesterday.  They're  all  well,  and  they 
told  me  to  give  you  their  love  if  I  saw  you, 
and  to  give  you  half  the  postal  order  they  sent 
me." 

The  soldier  searched  in  his  pocket. 

"The  only  thing  is  that  I  haven't  been  able 
to  get  hold  of  the  postmaster  to  cash  it.  But, 
if  you  want  it  .  .  ." 

"No,  you  keep  it!  I've  got  more  money 
than  I  want." 

"All  right,  then.  Uncle  and  auntie  both  sent 
their  love.  .  .  .  Hallo!  I  mustn't  lose  my 
company.  ...  I  believe  we're  going  to  rest  a 
bit.  .  .  ." 

"They  say  so.  In  that  case  we  shall  see  each 
other  again  soon.  ...  So  long!" 

Their  hands  met.  The  infantryman  made  a 
step  forward. 

"I'll  tell  them  I've  seen  you  when  I  write." 

"Yes,  so  will  1 1" 

The  man  ran  on,  shouldering  his  way 
through  the  ranks.  Occasionally  we  saw  his 
hand  raised  above  the  heads,  waving  good- 
bye. 

Following  behind  the  regiments  of  the  yth 
Division  we  began  a  march  of  exasperating 
slowness.  It  was  very  hot,  and  the  dust  raised 


THE  RETREAT  197 

by  the  infantry  smothered  and  stifled  us.  At 
intervals,  by  the  roadside,  dead  horses  were 
lying. 

On  reaching  Chatel  we  turned  to  the  left 
down  a  clear  road  and  at  last  were  able  to 
trot.  Across  the  fields  and  valleys,  as  far  as 
the  horizon,  a  long  line  of  grey  dust  clouding 
the  trees  marked  the  Varennes  road  which  the 
division  was  following. 

It  was  noon,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  we 
must  have  journeyed  ten  or  twelve  miles  since 
we  started  at  dawn.  But  suddenly  we  heard 
the  guns  again — not  very  far  away,  towards 
the  north-east. 

Near  the  village  of  Apremont  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  forest  of  Argonne,  in  which  the 
head  of  our  column  had  already  penetrated, 
three  shells  burst. 

Then  the  enemy  was  following  us!  Was 
there  no  one  to  stop  him?  Had  we  not  been 
replaced?  Did  it  mean  defeat  .  .  .  invasion 
.  .  .  France  laid  open? 

Abreast  of  our  column  lines  of  carts  were 
lumbering  along  the  road.  The  whole  popula- 
tion was  flying  from  the  enemy — old  women, 
girls,  mothers  with  babies  at  the  breast,  and 
swarms  of  children.  These  unhappy  people 
were  saving  that  which  was  most  precious 
to  them — their  existence;  the  women  and 


198  MY  -75 

girls — their  honour,  a  little  money,  often  a 
household  pet,  such  as  a  dog,  a  cat,  or  a  bird  in 
a  cage.  .  .  . 

The  poorest  were  on  foot.  A  family  of  four 
were  making  their  way  through  the  woods  led 
by  an  old  man  with  careworn  features.  Over 
his  shoulder  he  carried  a  stick,  on  the  end 
of  which  was  tied  a  large  wicker  basket  cov- 
ered with  a  white  cloth.  At  his  side  dangled 
a  game-bag  crammed  to  its  utmost  capacity. 
He  was  followed  up  the  narrow  forest  path 
by  a  young  woman  leading  a  fat  red  cow 
with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  she  held 
a  shaggy-haired  dog  in  leash  by  means  of  a 
handkerchief  fastened  to  its  collar.  A  little 
girl  was  clinging  to  her  skirts,  and  letting  her- 
self be  dragged  along.  Behind  them  came  an 
old  woman,  bent  almost  double  by  age  and 
by  the  weight  of  a  grape-gatherer's  basket  full 
of  linen  which  she  was  carrying  on  her  back. 
She  hobbled  along,  leaning  heavily  on  a 
stick. 

Where  were  all  these  poor  people  going? 
Many  had  not  the  vaguest  notion,  and  confessed 
as  much.  They  were  going  straight  ahead, 
into  those  parts  of  France  which  the  Germans 
would  not  reach. 

"What  is  the   use   of   staying?"   asked   an 


THE  RETREAT  199 

old  man  querulously.  "They'll  burn  every- 
thing just  the  same,  and  I'd  rather  find  my- 
self ruined  and  roofless  here,  but  free,  than 
back  yonder  where  I  should  be  in  the  hands  of 
the  Germans.  Besides,  I've  my  daughter-in- 
law  to  think  of — the  wife  of  my  son,  who  is  a 
gunner  like  you.  She's  with  child — seven 
months  gone — and  when  she  heard  the  guns 
begin  yesterday  the  pains  came  on.  At  first  I 
thought  she  was  going  to  be  confined;  but  it 
passed  off.  But  I  thought  we  had  better  leave 
at  once.  These  beasts  of  Germans,  who  violate 
and  disembowel  women  .  .  .  who  knows  wheth- 
er they  would  have  respected  her  condition? 
.  .  .  Last  night  we  found  a  road-mender's  hut 
to  sleep  in,  but  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do 
to-night.  .  .  .  And  I'm  afraid  she'll  g?t  ill. 
Just  now  she's  sleeping  in  the  cart.  I  must  take 
care  that  she  doesn't  get  ill !  My  son  left  her 
in  my  charge." 

Pointing  in  the  direction  our  column  was  fol- 
lowing, I  asked  the  old  man: 

"Where  does  this  road  lead  to?" 

"Where?"  he  replied,  a  wrathful  look  sud- 
denly coming  into  his  eyes.  "Why,  Chalons  and 
Paris  .  .  .  the  whole  of  France!" 

And,  shaking  his  head,  he  added  bitterly: 

"Oh,  my  God!" 


200  MY  -75 

"You  see  they're  half  again  as  many  as  we 
are." 

He  did  not  answer  immediately,  but,  after  a 
moment  or  two,  he  said: 

"I  saw  '70.  .  .  .  It's  just  the  same  as  in 

70." 

The  battery  rolled  on  till  we  had  crossed  the 
whole  of  Argonne.  At  Servon,  a  village  on 
the  fringe  of  the  woods,  where  the  infantry 
were  making  a  long  halt,  we  stopped  for  a  few 
minutes.  It  was  two  o'clock. 

We  led  the  horses  down  to  the  drinking- 
place,  near  a  mill  on  the  bank  of  the  green 
Aisne.  The  animals  waded  breast-high  into 
the  stream,  where  they  stood  puffing  and  snort- 
ing, splashing  the  men,  who,  with  rolled-up 
trousers,  were  also  paddling  with  enjoyment  in 
the  cool  water. 

Finally,  near  Ville-sur-Tourbe,  we  parked 
our  guns.  Presumably  we  were  to  embark  the 
same  evening  at  the  station  close  by. 

The  forebodings  which  had  seized  me  in 
the  morning  when  I  saw  the  enemy  advancing 
behind  us  had  in  no  way  diminished.  Were 
we  going  to  embark  and  leave  the  road  open 
to  the  invaders?  Would  they  not  surround 
the  troops  operating  in  Belgium  and  those  ad- 
vancing in  Alsace?  .  .  .  But  were  the  French 


THE  RETREAT  201 

still  in  Belgium  and  in  Alsace?  How  we  wished 
that  we  could  know  the  truth,  whatever  it  might 
be! 

To-night  the  men  were  surly  and  despon- 
dent, and  one  and  all  were  anxious  to  escape 
fatigue  duty.  Deprez  found  himself  con- 
fronted on  all  sides  by  the  same  sulkiness  and 
apathy. 

"Tuvache,  go  and  fetch  water!" 

"But  I  went  yesterday!  .  .  .  It's  more  than 
half  a  mile  I  .  .  .  Why  can't  some  of  the  others 
have  a  turn?  .  .  ." 

"Well,  Laille,  did  you  go  yesterday?" 

"No." 

"Right  then,  off  you  go !" 

"Oh,  but  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  asking  for  your  opinion,  you 
know.  .  .  ." 

"Some  of  'em  never  go.  .  .  ." 

"I  tell  you  once  again  to  go  and  fetch  wa- 
ter!" 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  you  won't  order  me  to  do 
anything  else  afterwards?" 

"No." 

Grasping  a  canvas  water-bag  in  each  hand 
Laille  slouched  off,  dragging  his  feet  and 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 


202  MY  -75 

We  were  informed  that  we  were  not  going 
to  entrain  at  Ville-sur-Tourbe. 

We  had  to  swallow  our  soup  boiling  hot 
and  eat  the  meat  raw,  after  which  we  set  off 
again  in  the  crimson-tinted  twilight.  Refugees 
were  camping  in  the  fields  on  either  side  of 
the  road,  where  they  had  prepared  to  pass 
the  night  stretched  out  on  straw  strewn  be- 
neath their  carts,  which  would  afford  but  poor 
protection  from  the  morning  chill  and  dew. 
Infants  in  long  clothes  were  sleeping  in 
cradles. 

We  were  marching  southwards.  The  moon 
had  risen,  and  straight  ahead  shone  a  solitary, 
magnificent  star.  Presently  we  reached  a 
dark  and  deserted  town — Sainte-Menehould — 
where  it  was  too  dark  to  see  the  names  of  the 
streets.  The  road  was  in  lamentable  repair, 
and  the  horses  stumbled  and  the  guns  jolted. 
Perspectives  of  abandoned  streets  were  pro- 
longed by  the  moon.  .  .  .  Finally  we  saw 
ahead  the  red  lamp  of  a  railway  station,  where, 
for  a  moment,  I  thought  we  should  embark. 
But  we  did  not  even  halt. 

Under  the  wan  and  yellow  moonlight,  which 
magnified  the  distances,  the  country  once  again 
spread  itself  out  in  long  valleys,  where  no 
troops  were  moving  and  where  no  sentinel  could 
be  seen. 


THE  RETREAT  203 

Thursday,  September  3 
Towards  midnight  we  halted,  and  almost 
immediately  afterwards  orders  arrived.  Our 
original  instructions  had  been  to  move  on  at 
daybreak,  but  the  orders  just  to  hand  were 
to  the  effect  that  we  should  remain  here. 
So  we  were  able  to  sleep  until  past  nine 
o'clock. 

A  never-ending  stream  of  refugees  was  now 
flowing  down  the  dusty  road. 

We  again  heard  a  rumour  that  we  had  been 
replaced  on  the  Meuse  by  the  6th  Army  Corps; 
and  that  we  were  going  into  Haute-Alsace 
under  the  command  of  General  d'Amade.  This 
name,  which  was  very  popular,  elicited  general 
enthusiasm. 

"Now  it  will  be  different!" 

I  questioned  a  Chasseur,  one  of  General 
Boelle's  orderlies,  but  either  the  man  knew  noth- 
ing, or  he  would  not  tell  what  he  knew. 

The  carts  of  the  refugees  had  to  be  lined 
up  on  one  side  of  the  road  in  order  to  make 
way  for  the  infantry  of  the  2nd  Army  Corps 
arriving  from  Clermont-en-Argonne  and  Sainte- 
Menehould.  These  troops  seemed  to  have 
suffered  less  severely  than  the  regiments  of 
the  4th  Corps,  but  they  had  no  more  notion 


204  -75 

as  to  their  destination  than  we.  They  also 
spoke  of  d'Amade,  of  successes  in  the  north, 
and  of  naval  victories.  They  appeared  to  be 
quite  unaware  that  the  Germans  were  advanc- 
ing behind  us.  But  were  they  really  advanc- 
ing? Was  it  not  merely  a  fresh  allotment 
of  French  troops?  How  we  wished  that  it 
werel 

Friday,  September  4 

It  was  still  night  when  we  broke  up  the  camp. 
After  a  whole  day  solely  spent  in  eating  and 
sleeping,  we  should  have  felt  much  refreshed 
had  we  not  been  tortured  with  diarrhoea.  The 
Medical  Officer  had  no  more  bismuth  or  pare- 
goric elixir  left,  and  we  had  no  choice  but  to 
chew  blackthorn  bark. 

The  horses  were  even  more  exhausted  than 
the  men.  Many  had  been  slightly  injured  in 
the  engagements  on  Monday  and  Tuesday, 
and  their  wounds  were  suppurating.  No  one 
seemed  to  trouble  about  them,  and  that  was 
not  the  worst,  for  some  of  them  had  to  suffer 
the  stupid  remedies  applied  by  the  ignorant 
drivers.  I  saw  one  man  urinate  on  his 
horse's  pastern,  which  had  been  cut  by  a  shell 
splinter.  Nearly  all  the  animals  were  lame 
as  the  result  of  kicks  received  at  night-time, 
when  the  worn-out  stable-pickets  fall  asleep. 
Seldom  taken  out  of  the  traces  and  hardly 


THE  RETREAT  205 

ever  unharnessed,  the  straps,  cruppers,  and 
especially  the  crupper-loops  had  made  large 
sores  on  them  which  were  covered  all  day  long 
with  flies.  And,  besides  all  this,  the  poor 
beasts,  like  the  men,  were  weakened  by  inces- 
sant diarrhoea. 

All  the  morning  we  marched  on,  through 
Givry-en-Argonne,  Sommeilles,  Nettancourt, 
and  Brabant,  the  milestones  being  at  first 
marked  "Meuse"  and  then  "Marne."  The 
dust  half  veiled  the  austere,  regular  hills  of  the 
beautiful  country  and  the  magnificent  reaches 
of  the  forest  of  Argonne  sloping  away  to  the 
east. 

About  noon  we  reached  Revigny-aux-Vaux, 
a  pretty  little  white-walled  town  surrounded 
by  fields  and  pasture-lands,  where  we  parked 
our  guns  on  the  bank  of  the  Ornain,  close  to 
the  station.  As  we  were  leading  the  horses 
down  to  the  river  a  man  dressed  like  an  artisan, 
who  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  the  road,  ac- 
costed me : 

"Where  are  you  gunners  from?" 

"From  the  Hauts-de-Meuse,  over  by  Dun 
and  Stenay.  We've  been  replaced  there  by 
fresh  troops." 

"Replaced?" 

"Yes — they  say  by  the  6th  Army  Corps." 

"Pooh,    that's    all    rot!  ...  You've    just 


206  MY  -75 

turned  tail!  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  simply  that!  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  where  the  Prussians  are?"  he 
added,  getting  up. 

I  felt  chilled  by  a  sudden  fear.  Misery  was 
plainly  written  on  the  fellow's  bony,  emaciated 
face.  When  sitting  he  had  not  seemed  nearly 
so  tall  or  thin. 

He  stretched  out  a  long  arm,  and  with  a 
shaking  hand  pointed  to  the  north-west. 

"They're  just  outside  Chalons,  the  Prus- 
sians!" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"You  don't  believe  me?  Well,  I've  come 
from  Chalons — an  aeroplane  dropped  a  bomb 
on  the  station  just  as  my  train  left.  And 
the  Prussians  have  got  to  other  places  as 
well,  if  you  want  to  know.  They  are  at 
Compiegne!  Do  you  hear?  ...  At  Com- 
piegne .  .  .  it's  certain.  You've  only  got  to 
ask  .  .  .  anybody  here  will  tell  you.  They've 
got  to  Compiegne  and  they  took  La  Fere  as 
they  passed." 

I  began  to  tremble,  everything  seemed  to 
be  turning  round  me,  and  for  a  moment  I 
thought  I  should  fall.  Instinctively  I  pressed 
my  knees  into  my  horse's  sides  and  returned 
slowly  to  the  camp  with  a  haggard  face  and 
an  aching  heart. 


THE  RETREAT  207 

Hutin  was  there.  I  looked  him  straight  in 
the  eyes  and  said  slowly: 

"Hutin!  The  Germans  are  at  Com- 
piegne!" 

"Where?" 

"At  Compiegne!" 

He  grew  pale  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"No!" 

"Yes,  at  Compiegne!" 

"Compiegne!  Compiegne!  Why,  that's 
less  than  sixty  miles  from  Paris!  Oh,  my 
God!" 

We  looked  at  each  other. 

"Who  let  them  get  through?" 

"Those  in  the  north,  I  suppose." 

"Then  it's  worse  than  in  '70!" 

"At  Compiegne !"  repeated  Hutin  distract- 
edly. 

Dreadful  thoughts  of  downfall,  of  treason, 
of  all  the  bitterness  of  defeat  and  of  suffering 
endured  to  no  purpose  rose  up  like  spectres  in 
each  man's  mind. 

"I  told  you  so;  we've  been  sold!"  declared 
the  trumpeter. 

In  spite  of  everything,  I  still  could  not  believe 
in  treachery. 

"Sold!  Why  sold?  By  whom?  ...  By 
whom?" 

"How  should  I  know?     But  they  wouldn't 


208  MY  -75 

be  at  Compiegne  if  we  hadn't  been  betrayed. 
Oh,  it's  the  old  story!  .  .  .  Just  like  '70.  .  .  . 
Bazaine  in  '70!" 

"We  may  have  been  overwhelmed.  .  .  . 
There  are  so  many  of  them !  .  .  .  Three 
times  our  numbers!  .  .  .  Besides,  in  1870 
the  mistake  made  by  the  Chalons  army  was 
that  they  didn't  wait  for  the  Germans  at  Paris. 
That  is  well  known.  If  MacMahon's  army 
had  not  advanced,  had  not  let  itself  be  bottled 
up  at  Sedan,  perhaps  we  shouldn't  have  been 
beaten.  .  .  ." 

I  grasped  at  the  idea  of  a  strategic  retreat, 
and  tried  to  convince  my  comrades  in  order 
to  convince  myself.  But  they  all  remained 
downcast  and  sullen,  and  kept  repeating: 

"Just  as  in '70!" 

What  a  refrain! 

Brejard,  who  had  been  listening  as  he 
smoked,  was  the  only  one  who  was  still  con- 
fident. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  said  he,  "that  we 
don't  know  anything  for  certain.  But,  if  the 
other  Army  Corps  are  in  the  same  condition 
as  ours,  all  is  by  no  means  lost.  They've  prob- 
ably been  pushed  back  a  bit  in  the  north,  like 
we  have  been  in  Belgium.  But  if  they  haven't 
been  taken,  that  is  the  main  thing,  and  as  for 
this  being  the  same  as  '70 — why,  there's  abso- 


THE  RETREAT  209 

lutely  no  resemblance!  In  '70  we  were  alone, 
whereas  now  we've  got  the  English  and  Rus- 
sians with  us." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  the  English  and 
Russians!"  said  the  trumpeter. 

"Have  you  seen  any  of  the  English,  ser- 
geant?" 

"No,  but  they're  over  here,  all  right." 

"They  are  said  to  be,"  corrected  Millon. 
"But  it  was  also  said  that  we  were  advancing 
in  the  north.  A  brilliant  advance !  .  .  ." 

"And  the  Russians!"  went  on  Pelletier. 
"Why  the  hell  aren't  they  in  Berlin  by  this  time? 
They've  nothing  to  stop  them  on  their 
side.  .  .  ." 

Brejard  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"Well,  but  all  the  same  they've  got  to  do 
something  more  than  purchase  their  railway 
tickets!" 

"But  a  month  ought  to  be  enough  .  .  . 
with  their  famous  Cossacks,"  retorted  the 
trumpeter. 

And  he  continued: 

"It's  all  tommy-rot!  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  /  think  of  it,  sergeant?  Well,  these 
Russians  and  English,  who  have  declared 
war  on  Germany  .  .  .  it's  simply  sham!  .  .  . 
A  put-up  job!  They've  engineered  the  whole 


MY  -75 

thing  together  in  order  to  do  us  in  ...  just 
like  '70!" 

"Just  like  '70!"  repeated  Blanchet,  who, 
sitting  cross-legged  like  a  tailor,  was  mending 
a  rent  in  his  coat. 

This  crushing  catastrophe,  which  had  de- 
scended upon  us  like  the  blow  of  a  sledge-ham- 
mer, made  us  begin  to  doubt  everything  and 
everybody. 

Why,  instead  of  beguiling  us  with  imaginary 
victories,  could  they  not  simply  have  told  us: 
"We  have  to  deal  with  an  enemy  superior  in 
numbers.  We  are  obliged  to  retreat  until  we 
.can  complete  our  concentration  and  until  the 
English  reinforcements  arrive?" 

Were  they  afraid  of  frightening  us  by  the 
word  "retreat"  when  we  were  already  experi- 
encing its  reality? 

Why?  Why  had  we  been  deceived,  de- 
moralised? .  .  . 

Accompanied  by  Deprez  and  Lebidois  I 
turned  into  the  garden  of  a  restaurant  and 
ordered  luncheon.  Under  the  leafy  arbour 
of  Virginia  creepers  and  viburnum,  pierced 
here  and  there  with  dancing  rays  of  sunlight, 
blazed  a  medley  of  officers'  uniforms — chemists, 
Medical  Corps  men,  infantry  officers  of  all  de- 
nominations, Army  Supply  Corps  officers  and 


THE  RETREAT  211 

paymasters,  the  latter  in  green  uniforms  which 
gave  them  the  appearance  of  foresters. 

For  fifteen  days  we  had  not  eaten  off  proper 
plates  nor  drunk  from  glasses.  The  luncheon 
would  have  been  an  untold  delight  had  we  not 
all  three  been  haunted  by  the  spectre  of  catas- 
trophe. .  .  . 

When  night  fell  we  embarked.  The  long 
platform,  littered  with  straw,  was  illuminated 
at  lengthy  intervals  by  oil-lamps.  The  horses, 
overcome  by  exhaustion,  their  heads  drooping, 
allowed  the  drivers  to  lead  them  into  their 
boxes  without  offering  any  resistance.  The 
gunners  finished  loading  up  the  guns  on  the 
trucks,  and  soon  all  became  silent.  The  men 
installed  themselves  for  the  night,  thirty  in 
each  van,  some  stretched  out  on  the  seats 
and  others  lying  underneath,  using  their 
cloaks  as  pillows.  Rifles  and  swords  had  been 
cast  into  a  corner.  And,  just  as  the  western 
sky  had  ceased  to  glow,  leaving  the  dreary 
platform  dark  and  desolate,  the  train  slowly 
started. 

Saturday,  September  5 

I  had  hardly  any  sleep  last  night.  Every 
quarter  of  an  hour  the  train  stopped,  and  men 
attacked  by  dysentery  trod  on  me  as  they  hur- 
riedly made  for  the  doors  in  order  to  jump 


212  MY  -75 

down  on  the  tracks.  This  morning  the  same 
scramble  continues.  As  soon  as  the  train  stops 
one  has  a  vision  of  files  of  gunners  making  for 
the  bushes,  whence  they  hastily  return  when 
the  whistle  blows.  Luckily  the  train  gathers 
speed  very  slowly ! 

A  melancholy  day — spent  in  absently  watch- 
ing the  country  roll  past,  one's  mind  always 
hypnotised  by  the  thought  of  defeat.  .  .  . 

Often  the  train  does  not  go  faster  than  a 
man  walking. 


IV.    FROM  THE  MARNE  TO  THE 
AISNE 

Sunday,  September  6 

WHEN    we    awoke,    in    a    fine    morning 
lightly  veiled  by  silvery  mists,  the  sub- 
urbs of  Paris  were  already  visible. 

We  passedthe  forest  of  Fontainebleau,  where 
troops  were  camping  amid  the  broom  and 
bracken,  and  rolled  on  through  the  woods  in 
which  the  white  walls  and  red  roofs  of  the  vil- 
las made  a  gay  splash  on  the  green  background. 
The  gardens  were  a  mass  of  blossoms;  huge 
sunflowers  turned  their  golden  faces  toward  us. 

We  almost  forgot  the  tragedy  of  the  moment. 

Sunday!  The  bells  were  ringing.  Besides, 
Paris  was  quite  close  now,  and  the  magnetic 
power  of  the  great  city  was  already  making 
itself  felt.  The  Parisians  amongst  us  could 
hardly  keep  still. 

Suddenly,  after  this  dreary  journey,  and 
although  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
explain  why  or  how,  hope  was  rekindled  in 
spite  of  some  more  bad  news  we  had  learnt 
on  the  way,  namely,  that  the  Germans  had 
reached  Creil  without  opposition. 

213 


214  MY  -75 

It  was  not  the  strength  of  the  entrenched 
camp  of  Paris,  of  its  garrison,  nor  of  its  heavy 
artillery  which  restored  our  confidence;  it  was 
rather  the  instinctive  faith  of  a  child,  who, 
having  returned  home,  feels  irresistible  be- 
cause there  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  reassuring 
sympathy  between  himself  and  surrounding  ob- 
jects— even  the  elements.  What  again  sent  the 
blood  coursing  through  our  veins  was  the  in- 
describable yet  definite  sensation  caused  by  the 
presence  of  something  immortal,  of  something 
loved  and  revered.  It  was  like  a  breath  of 
life,  like  the  comforting  support  of  an  invinci- 
ble Personality,  an  all-powerful  Divinity. 
And  then,  as  Hutin  kept  repeating: 
"There  1  That's  Paris !  that's  Paris  1" 

"The  English!" 

A  convoy  of  British  troops  was  passing  us. 
The  men  shouted  and  waved  their  kepis. 

At  Villeneuve-Saint-Georges  the  station  was 
thronged  with  Highlanders.  Our  train  came 
to  a  standstill  and  was  immediately  surround- 
ed by  a  crowd  of  kilted  soldiers  intent  upon 
examining  our  guns.  Lebidois  acted  as  inter- 
preter, and  there  was  much  hand-shaking  and 
cheering. 

Little  Millon  stopped  a  burly  Highlander 
with  tattooed  wrists  and  knees  and  asked  him 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  215 
whether  he  wore  any  drawers  under  his  kilt. 
The  other  did  not  understand  and  laughed. 

"That's  so,  isn't  it?"  said  Millon.  "If  only 
you'd  got  a  little  more  hair  on  your  head  and 
a  little  less  on  your  paws — why,  in  that  skirt 
they'd  take  you  for  a  girl!" 

We  disembarked  at  Pantin.  Except  for  in- 
scriptions on  the  wooden  panels  or  steel  shut- 
ters of  the  shops,  such  as  "Owner  away  at 
the  front,"  or,  in  letters  a  foot  high,  "We  are 
French,"  and  save  for  the  faded  mobilisation 
placards,  Pantin  wore  the  usual  aspect  common 
to  such  places  on  summer  Sundays. 

On  the  pavement  and  in  the  roadway 
swarmed  crowds  of  women  in  light-coloured 
dresses,  carefully  corseted,  their  figures  curv- 
ing with  that  grace  which  only  Parisian  women 
seem  to  possess.  Soldiers  of  every  rank  and 
regiment  strolled  in  and  out  the  crush.  A  Ter- 
ritorial passed  with  a  woman  on  one  arm, 
while  with  the  other  he  led  a  little  boy  by  the 
hand. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  the  enemy  was  at 
their  gates? 

At  Rosny-sous-Bois  we  camped  on  a  plateau 
overlooking  the  town  on  one  side  and  the 
plain  of  Brie  on  the  other — a  depressing 


216  MY  -75 

enough  spot,  devoid  of  all  charm.     Far  off, 

towards  the  south-east,  the  sound  of  guns  was 

audible. 

In  the  streets,  between  the  shrubbery  of  the, 
gardens  and  the  light-coloured  fronts  of  the 
villas,  the  scarlet  uniforms,  white  blouses,  and 
variegated  parasols  chequered  the  crowd  with 
bright  dashes  of  colour. 

The  Zouaves  had  come  down  from  the 
forts. 

On  the  terraces  of  the  cafes,  where  not  a 
single  place  remained  vacant,  the  white  aprons 
of  the  waiters  fluttered  in  and  out  among  the 
multicoloured  uniforms  of  the  Chasseurs,  Army 
Service  Corps  officers,  Artillerymen,  Tirail- 
leurs, and  Spahis.  In  front  of  the  Post  Office 
and  round  the  doors  of  the  bakeries  and  con- 
fectioners' shops  the  crowd  collected  in  ani- 
mated groups.  Women  ran  to  and  fro  greeting 
the  soldiers,  asking  questions,  searching  for 
a  husband,  son,  brother,  or  lover  whom  they 
were  expecting  to  arrive. 

Every  one  jostled  together,  hailed  each 
other,  drank,  ate,  smoked,  and  laughed.  Fami- 
lies of  placid  tradespeople,  mildly  inquisitive, 
strutted  in  and  out  the  crowd  with  short,  con- 
ceited little  steps. 

The  guns  were  still  roaring,  but  in  order  to 
hear  them  one  had  to  separate  from  the  crowd 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  217 
and  enter  the  quiet  little  streets  between  the 
gardens. 

We  heard  that  fighting  was  in  progress  on 
the  Grand  Morin. 

Monday,  September  7 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  I  was  awakened 
by  Brejard. 

"Up  you  get,"  said  he. 

"What?" 

"Here,  listen  to  this." 

He  pulled  a  piece  of  paper  out  of  his  pocket. 

"Army  Order  of  the  Day. 
"At  the  moment  when  we  are  about  to  engage 
upon  a  battle  upon  which  will  depend  the  safety 
of  the  country,  it  is  necessary  to  remind  every 
one  that  this  is  not  the  time  to  look  back.  No 
effort  must  be  spared  to  attack  and  repulse  the 
enemy.  Troops  which  can  advance  no  farther 
must  at  all  costs  hold  the  ground  won  and  be 
killed  rather  than  retire." 

"Do  you  understand?" 

Yes,  we  had  all  understood  perfectly.  We 
should  never  have  been  able  to  express  so 
simply  and  yet  so  completely  our  inmost 
thoughts.  "Troops  should  let  themselves  be 
killed  rather  than  retire."  That  was  it! 

"And  now,  limber  up,"  added  Brejard. 
"We're  off  there!" 


218  MY  -75 

Just  as  the  battery  was  starting,  two  girls, 
the  sister  and  fiancee  of  one  of  the  gunners, 
hurried  up.  For  a  moment  or  two  they  ran, 
flushed  and  panting,  by  the  side  of  the  horses, 
both  speaking  rapidly  and  at  the  same  time. 
When  they  were  quite  out  of  breath  they  held 
out  their  hands,  one  after  the  other,  to  the  gun- 
ner, who  leant  down  from  the  saddle  and  kissed 
their  finger-tips. 

We  passed  through  the  suburbs  and  then, 
by  the  Soissons  road,  approached  the  plain  of 
Brie.  We  were  going  to  the  front,  and  I  think 
that  each  man  felt  that  we  were  now  passing 
through  the  gravest  and  most  critical  moments 
of  a  whole  century — perhaps  of  a  whole  his- 
tory. 

Evening  fell.  The  battery  had  been  on  the 
march  for  more  than  ten  hours  without  halt- 
ing. Far  away  in  the  background  Montmartre 
reared  its  black  silhouette  against  the  western 
sky. 

The  fields  were  lit  up  by  the  stars,  which 
were  exceptionally  brilliant,  but  the  road  re- 
mained dark  under  the  vault  of  tall  trees 
planted  in  double  rows  on  either  side,  between 
which  floated  a  suffocating  cloud  of  dust.  A 
distant  searchlight  was  sweeping  the  plain.  The 
battery  broke  into  a  trot  on  the  paved  road, 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  219 
and  the  vehicles  jolted  and  bumped  so  that  it 
was  veritable  torture  to  sit  on  them.  Sharp 
internal  pains  made  us  twist  as  we  clutched  on 
to  the  limber-boxes;  our  aching  backs  seemed 
no  longer  capable  of  sustaining  our  shoulders, 
and  the  breath  came  in  gasps  from  our  shaken 
chests.  Our  hearts  thumped  against  our  ribs, 
our  heads  swam — we  perspired  with  pain. 
Should  we  never  stop? 

Hour  after  hour  we  followed  the  same  dark 
road,  but  the  column  had  again  slowed  down 
to  a  walk.  The  bright  headlights  of  an  ap- 
proaching automobile  suddenly  threw  the  trees 
into  vertiginous  perspectives  like  the  columns 
of  some  cathedral,  and  showed  up  the  teams 
and  drivers  as  they  emerged  from  the  gloom 
in  a  grotesque  procession  of  fantastic  shadows. 
The  motor  passed. 

On  we  lumbered  .  .  .  on,  on.  .  .  .  Should 
we  never  stop  ? 

"Halt!" 

At  last!  We  parked  the  guns  in  a 
field  and  then  led  the  horses  off  to  be 
watered. 

The  only  light  in  the  dark  little  village  was 
a  lamp  burning  in  a  kitchen,  in  which  we 
caught  a  glimpse  of  large  copper  sauce- 
pans. 


220  MY  -75 

There  was  no  horse-trough  and  we  had  to 
push  on  to  a  marshy  meadow  through  which 
ran  a  river.  The  banks  were  so  steep  that 
the  horses  could  not  drink  from  the  current, 
and  we  gave  them  water  out  of  the  canvas 
bags. 

On  our  return  we  found  the  road  crowded 
with  horses.  Other  batteries  had  just  arrived. 

An  eddy  in  the  stream  had  just  pushed 
me  up  against  the  garden  wall  of  a  chateau 
when  a  motor,  showing  no  lights,  forced  its  way 
through  the  herd  of  horses,  throwing  against 
me  a  confused  mass  of  men  and  animals  whose 
weight  crushed  me  against  the  stone.  An- 
other car  followed,  then  another,  hundreds  of 
them,  silently  and  interminably. 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  had  now 
risen,  I  was  able  to  recognise  the  oil-cloth  caps 
usually  worn  by  taxi-drivers.  Inside  the  cabs 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  soldiers  sleeping,  their 
heads  thrown  back. 

"Wounded?"  asked  somebody. 

"No,"  came  the  answer  from  a  passing  car. 
"It's  the  yth  Division  from  Paris.  They're  off 
to  the  front!" 

Tuesday,  September  8 

"Attention !" 

It  was  still  pitch-dark.  Cinders  continued  to 
smoulder  on  the  hearths.  The  guns  were  still 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     221 

roaring,  and  the  vivid  jets  of  fire  startled  us 
like  flashes  of  lightning.  A  little  way  off,  to 
the  east,  a  farm  or  hayrick  was  burning.  The 
weather  was  sultry  and  a  persistent  smell  of 
putrefying  flesh  permeated  the  air. 

The  battery  started;  we  were  off  to  the  fir- 
ing-line. 

At  daybreak  we  reached  Dammartin,  where, 
on  the  doors  and  closed  shutters,  notices  and 
billeting  directions  were  chalked  up  in  German. 
On  the  front  door  of  one  house  I  saw  two 
words  scrawled  in  pointed,  Gothic  handwriting: 
"Gute  Leute"  (Good  people) .  I  wondered  who 
it  was  that  lived  there.  .  .  . 

We  continued  on  our  way.  The  dull  boom 
of  the  guns  seemed  to  come  from  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  and  continued  uninterruptedly. 

By  the  side  of  the  road  a  grave  had  been 
dug  and  marked  by  a  white  deal  cross  bearing 
a  name  painted  in  tar  and  capped  by  a 
Chasseur's  shako  with  a  brass  chain.  The 
dead  man  had  evidently  not  been  buried  deep 
enough,  and  a  sickening  smell  rose  up  from  the 
freshly  turned  soil,  which  had  cracked  under 
the  hot  sun. 

The  road  was  still  staked  out  with  dead 
horses,  swollen  like  wine-skins,  their  stiffened 
legs  with  shining  shoes  threatening  the  sky. 
From  a  gaping  wound  in  the  flank  of  a  big 


222  MY    -75 

chestnut  mare  worms  were  wriggling  into  the 
grass;  others  were  swarming  in  her  nostrils 
and  mouth,  and  in  a  bullet-hole  behind  her 
ear. 

"Trot!" 

The  battery  became  almost  invisible  in  its 
own  dust.  We  began  to  pass  wounded,  hun- 
dreds of  wounded — infantry  of  the  line,  Alpine 
troops,  and  Colonial  infantry  white  with  dust, 
their  wounds  dressed  with  red  bandages.  They 
helped  each  other  along. 

The  majority  were  marching  in  small  groups. 
Many  had  stopped  to  rest.  It  was  very  hot, 
and  I  saw  several  of  them  round  an  apple-tree, 
shaking  down  the  fruit  in  order  to  slake  their 
thirst. 

We  had  halted  while  the  Major  received 
orders  from  an  Ordnance  Officer.  I  questioned 
one  of  the  Colonials,  who  was  wounded  in  the 
head. 

"Well,  how  are  things  going  down  there?" 

"Phew!  they're  falling  thick!" 

I  did  not  know  whether  he  was  referring  to 
bullets,  shell,  or  men,  but  from  the  expression 
of  the  drawn  and  haggard  faces  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  the  fighting  had  been  severe. 

"Been  fighting  long  here?" 

"Yes." 

"How  many  days?" 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     223 

"It  had  begun  when  we  came." 

"And  when  did  you  come?" 

"The  day  before  yesterday." 

And  he  repeated: 

"Yes,  they' re  falling  thick!" 

We  restarted,  again  at  a  trot. 

The  clear  sky,  of  a  pure  limpid  blue  on  the 
northern  and  eastern  horizon,  was  fleeced 
with  the  white  smoke  of  shrapnel  shell;  in 
the  distance  black  clouds  were  rising  from 
burning  buildings  and  high-explosive  pro- 
jectiles. 

We  were  still  pursued  by  the  smell  of  dead 
flesh,  which  harassed  and  obsessed  us,  making 
us  peer  about  in  all  directions  for  hidden 
corpses. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  horses  of  my  ammuni- 
tion wagon  foundered  and  refused  to  go  any 
farther,  stopping  the  whole  team.  He  had 
to  be  unharnessed  and  abandoned.  The  other 
carriages  had  passed  us,  and  with  our  five 
remaining  horses  we  galloped  across  country 
in  order  to  rejoin  the  column.  The  furrows 
nearly  shook  us  off  our  seats  and  we  had  to 
hold  on  to  the  box-rails  with  might  and  main, 
bracing  our  legs  against  the  foot-rests  in  order 
not  to  fall  off. 

We  overtook  the  battery  in  a  village  which 
had  been  visible  from  afar  on  the  flat  and 


224  -75 

bare  countryside.  The  enemy  had  evidently 
quartered  there.  The  doors  had  been  broken 
in  with  blows  from  the  butt-ends  of  rifles; 
almost  all  the  windows  had  been  smashed, 
and  were  now  mere  frames  bristling  with 
jagged  splinters  of  glass.  Dirty  curtains 
flapped  through  them  on  the  outside.  Torn- 
down  shutters  lay  strewn  on  the  pavement 
among  broken  bottles,  shattered  tiles,  and 
empty  tins  of  preserves.  Others,  hanging  by 
one  hinge,  beat  against  the  fronts  of  the 
houses. 

Through  the  wide-open  doors  we  could  see 
staved-in  wardrobes  which  had  been  thrown 
down  the  staircases.  Empty  drawers,  mantel- 
piece ornaments,  photographs,  pictures  and 
prints  littered  the  red-tiled  floors.  Mudstained 
sheets  with  the  mark  of  hobnailed  boots  on 
them  trailed  to  the  middle  of  the  street,  giving 
to  these  unfortunate  houses  something  of  the 
horror  of  ripped-up  corpses. 

The  pavements  were  a  mass  of  furniture 
thrown  out  of  the  windows,  perambulators,  go- 
carts,  and  broken  wine-casks.  Wood  crunched 
under  the  wheels  of  the  wagon.  A  pair  of  pink 
corsets  was  lying  in  the  gutter. 

On  one  of  the  Michelin  danger  signals,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  village,  I  read  the  warn- 
ing: "Attention  aux  enfants — Sennevieres," 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  225 
and  on  the  other  side  a  derisive  and  mournful 
"Merci."  * 

We  halted  where  the  road  traced  a  straight 
white  line  through  a  plain  planted  with  sugar- 
beets.  The  desolate  nakedness  of  the  fields 
was  only  broken  by  a  shed,  three  hayricks,  and, 
farther  off,  some  little,  square-shaped  copses 
and  a  long  line  of  poplars.  To  the  east  and 
north  the  battle  growled,  whistled  and  roared 
like  a  storm  at  sea.  One  would  have  thought 
that  the  infernal  noise  came  from  some  deep, 
subterranean  earthquake. 

We  had  waited  a  few  minutes  when  suddenly 
the  countryside  sprang  to  life.  Battalions, 
debouching  from  Sennevieres,  deployed  in 
skirmishing  order,  and  other  soldiers — hun- 
dreds and  thousands  whose  presence  one 
would  never  have  suspected — rose  up  from 
the  bosom  of  the  earth  and  swarmed  like  ants 
over  the  fields,  their  breeches  making  red 
patches  on  the  sombre  green  of  the  grass. 
Frightened  hares  fled  from  before  the  oncom- 
ing lines. 

Small  groups  of  wounded  again  began  to 
go  by.  They  could  be  seen  far  off,  black  specks 
on  the  straight  white  road  dazzling  in  the 
sun. 

*  Literally:  "Village  of  Sennevifcres. — Take  care  of  the  chil- 
dren."—"Thank  you." 


226  MY  -75 

Some  Cuirassiers  appeared  to  be  billeted 
somewhere  in  the  surroundings.  One  or  two 
passed  by  on  foot,  without  helmets  or  breast- 
plates, their  chests  covered  with  buff-coloured 
felt  pads  fitted  with  wadded  rings  round  the 
armholes.  They  were  carrying  large  joints  of 
fresh  beef.  In  the  shade  of  three  poplars 
to  the  right  of  the  road,  just  outside  the 
village,  some  men  were  slaughtering  cattle 
and  cutting  up  the  meat.  Near-by  lay  a  dead 
horse. 

Presently  came  the  order : 

"Reconnoitre!" 

The  battery  was  going  into  action.  Once 
more  I  was  unable  to  escape  the  little  shiver 
of  fear  which  follows  this  word  of  command. 

In  the  firing  position  the  battery  was  only 
masked  by  a  hedge  of  brambles  and  some 
tangled  shrubs,  so  that  from  several  points 
of  the  horizon  we  must  have  been  visible  to 
the  enemy.  The  position  was  not  a  good  one, 
but  it  was  the  best  the  surroundings  offered. 

The  officers  had  taken  up  their  posts  near 
the  first  gun  on  a  narrow  path  cutting  across 
the  plain.  The  battlefield  opened  out  wide  be- 
fore us.  But  on  the  almost  flat  countryside 
which  bore  such  an  everyday  aspect,  and  upon 
which  we  nevertheless  knew  the  destiny  of 
France  was  at  stake,  not  a  man,  not  a  gun  was 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  227 
to  be  seen.  The  thunder-ridden  plain  seemed 
to  lie  motionless  under  the  shells. 

We  had  covered  our  guns  with  sheaves; 
yellow  under  the  yellow  straw  they  might  de- 
ceive at  a  distance.  Besides,  straw  affords  good 
protection  against  shrapnel  bullets  and  shell 
splinters. 

We  at  once  fell  asleep  in  the  sun  with  the 
apathy  of  pawns  who  let  themselves  be  moved, 
with  that  fatalism  which  is  an  inevitable  result 
of  the  life  fraught  with  hourly  danger  we  had 
been  living  for  a  month. 

I  was  awakened  by  a  word  of  command.  Be- 
hind us  the  sun  was  sinking. 

"To  your  guns!" 

Something  dark,  artillery  possibly,  was  mov- 
ing yonder  at  the  foot  of  some  wooded 
hills  more  than  five  thousand  yards  off.  We 
opened  fire.  On  the  right,  on  the  left,  and 
even  in  front  of  us  .75  batteries  came  into  ac- 
tion one  by  one.  When  our  own  guns  were 
silent  for  a  few  seconds  we  heard  their  volleys 
echoing  in  fours. 

In  the  distance  in  front  of  us  all  had  become 
still.  The  Captain  gave  the  word  to  cease 
fire.  But  the  smoke  from  the  powder  and  the 
dust  raised  from  the  parched  field  by  the  con- 
cussion of  the  rounds  had  hardly  cleared  away 
when  some  heavy  shells  hurtled  through  the 


228  MY  -75 

hedge     masking    us,     leaving     three     gaping 

breaches     in     their     wake     and     obliterating 

with   their   smoke  the   whole   of   the    eastern 

horizon. 

"They  must  have  seen  the  fire  of  our  guns," 
said  Brejard. 

"And  they've  got  theirs  trained  to  a  T," 
added  Hutin.  "Six-inchers,  too!" 

As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  just  at  that  mo- 
ment a  refilling  wagon  from  the  first  line,  con- 
ducted by  a  corporal  riding  a  big  white  mare, 
came  up  at  a  trot. 

While  they  were  still  some  way  off  we 
shouted : 

"Dismount!" 

"Dismount!    You'll  get  us  killed!" 

The  drivers  seemed  not  to  hear. 

"Dismount     you—!     Walk!  .  .  .     Walk! 
»       „ 

They  had  already  unhooked  the  full  ammu- 
nition-wagon, hooked  the  empty  one  to  the  lim- 
ber, and  were  off  at  a  gallop  in  spite  of  our 
cries. 

Shells  were  not  long  in  arriving,  their  whis- 
tling modulated  by  the  wind.  One  second 
passed  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  . 

This  fear  of  death — the  death  which  falls 
slowly  from  the  sky — was  an  interminable  tor- 
ture. Everything  trembled.  The  shells  burst, 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  229 
and  the  wind  blew  their  smoke  down  upon 
us. 

I  heard  a  choking  groan: 

"Ah  ...  Ah  ...  Ah!  ..." 

Our  battery  remained  intact.  The  refilling 
wagon  was  still  galloping  away  in  the  distance. 
One  of  the  numbers  of  the  adjoining  battery 
had  fallen  forward  in  his  death  agony,  and  his 
forehead,  pierced  by  a  shell  splinter,  was  bath- 
ing the  bottoms  of  the  cartridge-cases  with 
blood. 

Hutin,  still  sitting  on  the  layer's  seat,  sud- 
denly cried  out: 

"Why,  I  can  see  the  swine  firing!  I  can 
see  them  .  .  .  long  way  off  ...  down  there, 
about  ten  thousand  yards  ...  I  saw  the  flash. 
.  .  .  It's  coming  .  .  .  it's  coming  .  .  .  look 
out!  .  .  ." 

Sure  enough,  we  were  shaken  by  fresh  ex- 
plosions. I  shut  my  eyes  instinctively  and  felt 
my  face  lashed  by  the  cast-up  earth,  but 
I  was  not  touched.  The  bottom  of  one  of  the 
cartridge-cases  hummed  loud  and  long,  and  once 
again  the  battery  was  smothered  in  smoke.  I 
heard  the  clear  voice  of  the  Captain  as  he 
shouted  to  the  senior  Petty  Officer: 

"Daumain,  get  everybody  under  cover  on 
the  right!  Major's  orders.  No  use  getting 
killed  as  long  as  we  aren't  firing." 


230  MY  -75 

We  called  each  other,  got  clear  of  the  smoke 
and  hurried  out  of  the  line  of  fire  of  the  How- 
itzers. But  the  enemy's  shells  pursued  us  over 
the  field  as  we  ran,  crouching  down,  in  scat- 
tered order. 

A  projectile,  the  flash  of  which  blinded  me 
for  a  moment,  knocked  down  a  sergeant  of  the 
1 2th  Battery,  who  was  running  by  my  side. 
The  man  picked  himself  up  immediately.  Just 
above  his  eyes  a  couple  of  splinters  had  drilled 
two  horribly  symmetrical  red  holes.  He  made 
off,  bending  his  head  so  that  the  blood  should 
not  run  into  his  eyes.  I  offered  to  help  him, 
but  he  said: 

"No,  leave  me.  .  .  .  Run!  It's  nothing, 
this  .  .  .  skull  isn't  smashed." 

We  took  cover  behind  some  large  hayricks 
and  waited  for  orders. 

The  roll  was  called: 

"Eleventh?" 

"Eleventh!" 

"Hutin?" 

"Here!" 

"Not  wounded?" 

"No,  and  you?" 

"No." 

The  four  detachments  were  complete. 

"And  the  Captain?" 

"Still  down  there   at  the   observation-post. 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     231 

Look  .  .  .  you  can  see  his  elbow  sticking  out 
behind  that  tree.  He's  all  right !" 

Two  more  volleys  of  shell  burst  close  to  our 
guns,  which  still  appeared  to  have  escaped 
damage. 

How  long  the  night  seemed  in  coming !  How 
we  cursed  the  sun  which,  its  blood-red  disk 
almost  touching  the  horizon,  seemed  as  though 
it  would  never  sink  down  behind  the  beet  field! 
It  looked  absolutely  motionless,  stationary. 

Hutin  swore  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  crim- 
son sphere. 

The  Captain  signalled  for  us  to  come  up. 

Behind  the  hayricks  the  cry  was  repeated: 

"To  the  guns!" 

We  thought  we  were  going  to  fire,  but  found 
that  other  orders  had  arrived. 

"Limbers!" 

A  mist,  rising  from  the  hollows  of  the  plain, 
blotted  out  distant  objects  one  by  one.  The 
far-off  hills  occupied  by  the  Howitzer  battery 
were  lost  in  a  purple  haze,  but  quite  possibly 
we  could  still  be  seen  thence  as  we  stood  sil- 
houetted against  the  clear  western  sky. 

We  limbered  up  and  rolled  off.  The  Howit- 
zers kept  silent. 

The  rifle-fire  now  began  to  grow  fainter,  and 
the  guns  were  hushed  in  their  turn.  A  death- 
like stillness  settled  down  on  the  plain,  which, 


232  MY  -75 

as  the  sun  sank,  became  illuminated  by  burning 
buildings,  the  flare  of  which  blazed  ever  more 
brightly  as  the  night  crept  on. 

The  day  of  severe  fighting  which  was  just 
drawing  to  a  close  had  decided  nothing.  Each 
of  the  adversaries  slept  in  his  own  posi- 
tions. 

Wednesday,  September  9 

In  a  field  near  Sennevieres,  in  position  of 
readiness,  we  brewed  our  coffee.  The  weather 
was  very  hot.  This  morning  the  battle  had 
been  slow  in  opening,  but  now  to  the  east  and 
north-east  the  guns  were  roaring  as  incessantly 
as  yesterday. 

Suddenly,  about  midday,  the  firing-line  on 
our  left  opened  out  and  became  slightly  curved. 
We  were  occupying  the  extreme  wing  of  the 
French  army,  and  were  at  once  seized  with 
misgivings.  Was  the  enemy  outflanking  us 
again? 

We  questioned  the  Captain,  who  was  also 
intently  observing  the  woods  which  yesterday 
had  been  out  of  the  enemy's  range,  and  which 
were  now  being  heavily  shelled. 

"What  does  that  mean,  sir?" 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  you,  I'm  afraid. 
I  only  obey,  you  know.  ...  I  go  where  I  am 
told  to  go.  ...  That's  all!" 

But  Deprez  insisted: 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     233 

"They're  turning  our  left  again!" 

The  Captain's  finely  chiselled  face  was  puck- 
ered with  anxiety. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "they're  certainly  bom- 
barding woods  which  they  weren't  bombarding 
yesterday.  But  that  at  any  rate  proves  that 
they  haven't  reached  them.  On  the  contrary, 
perhaps  they've  been  threatened  on  that  side 
by  an  enveloping  movement  of  our  troops. 
.  .  .  Who  knows?  .  .  .  Besides,  if  they  do 
outflank  us  we  aren't  alone  here.  .  .  .  We'll 
face  them!" 

He  gave  us  a  searching  look  with  his  intel- 
ligent hazel  eyes,  and  repeated: 

"We'll  face  them,  won't  we?" 

"Of  course  we  will,  sir!" 

Coffee  was  ready.  The  Captain  pulled  his 
aluminium  cup  out  of  his  pocket  and  dipped  it 
into  the  black  beverage  smoking  in  the  kettle. 
The  gunners  stood  round  him,  their  drinking- 
tins  in  their  hands,  waiting  their  turn,  and  when 
he  had  filled  his  cup  helped  themselves  one 
after  the  other.  Conversation  ceased,  and  the 
men  sipped  their  coftee. 

After  a  while  the  cook  said: 

"There's  some  left  over!" 

"How  much?"  asked  the  Captain,  anxious 
not  to  deprive  any  one. 

"A  good  half-cup  each." 


234  MY  -75 

The  Captain  helped  himself  and  the  men 
followed  suit.  Then,  as  there  still  remained 
a  little  coffee  mixed  with  grounds  the  operation 
was  repeated. 

With  that  startling  rapidity  which  we  had 
observed  each  time  we  had  had  to  retire  on 
the  Meuse,  the  country  became  alive  with  lines 
of  infantry.  Companies  and  battalions  were 
emerging  from  the  woods  and  from  behind  the 
hedges,  and  overspread  the  stubble-fields,  mass- 
ing in  the  hollows. 

"Hallo!  what  does  that  mean?"  asked 
Brejard. 

"Are  those  swine  turning  tail?"  exclaimed 
Millon,  crossing  his  arms. 

The  Captain  anxiously  observed  the  move- 
ments of  the  infantry. 

"No,"  said  he.  "Those  are  reserve  troops 
advancing  towards  the  north  in  order  to  face 
the  enemy  if  he  outflanks  us." 

Orders  came  for  us  to  go  and  take  up 
position  between  Sennevieres  and  Nanteuil-le- 
Haudoin. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  The 
enemy  was  turning  our  lines. 

We  were  seized  with  a  fit  of  wild  rage. 
Would  they  manage  to  pass  us,  and  get  to 
Paris?  To  Paris  ...  to  our  homes  ...  to 
kill,  sack,  rape?  .  .  . 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     235 

"Ah,"  growled  Hutin,  "what  wouldn't  I  give 
to  murder  some  of  those  savages!" 

"Trot!"  commanded  the  Captain. 

Bending  down  over  their  horses'  necks  the 
drivers  urged  the  teams  forward  with  voice, 
knees,  whip,  and  spur. 

The  same  gust  of  wind  seemed  to  carry  with 
it  men,  horses,  and  guns — all  this  artillery  let 
loose  like  a  tide  on  the  naked  fields,  over  whose 
furrows  it  billowed  and  surged. 

We  took  up  position  with  our  guns  pointing 
north-east.  Behind  us  the  sun,  already  low 
in  the  western  sky,  lit  up  the  railway-line  and 
the  road  from  Nanteuil  to  Paris,  flanked  with 
tall  trees. 

Sections  of  infantry  began  to  fall 
back. 

"You  see?"  repeated  Millon.  "They  can't 
stick  it,  the  beasts!  Haven't  they  read  the 
Army  Order  then?" 

Suddenly,  almost  behind  us,  rifle-fire  broke 
out.  We  had  been  outflanked. 

On  the  main  road  to  Paris,  and  between  the 
road  and  the  railway,  dense  masses  of  infantry 
were  debouching  from  behind  Nanteuil.  We 
were  encircled  by  a  huge  hostile  horseshoe,  and 
it  now  seemed  as  if  the  only  means  of  retreat 
open  to  the  4th  Army  Corps  was  the  narrow 


236  MY  -75 

road   running  south-east  between   Sennevieres 

and  Silly. 

An  officer  wearing  an  aviator's  cap  arrived 
in  a  motor-car  and  hurried  up  to  the  observa- 
tion-post. Shortly  afterwards  the  Major 
ordered  us  to  turn  the  guns  right  round. 

At  any  moment  we  might  be  caught  between 
two  fires,  for,  to  the  north-west  of  Nanteuil,  on 
the  hills  commanding  the  road,  there  could  be 
no  doubt  that  the  enemy's  artillery  was  taking 
up  position  in  order  to  support  the  infantry 
attack. 

Our  batteries  opened  fire. 

The  same  wild  frenzy  immediately  gained 
possession  of  men  and  guns.  The  latter  be- 
came roaring  monsters — raging  dragons,  which 
from  their  gaping  mouths  belched  fire  at  the 
sun  as  it  sank  to  rest  in  the  soft  summer 
twilight.  Piles  of  smoking  cartridge-cases 
mounted  up  behind  the  guns.  In  the  stricken 
zone  in  front  of  us  we  could  see  men  waver, 
turn  tail,  run,  and  fall  in  heaps.  From  the 
heights  above  Nanteuil,  from  which  our  guns 
could  have  been  counted,  came  no  answering 
roar  of  artillery. 

For  a  long  time  the  slaughter  continued. 

"Ah !     That  lot  will  never  get  to  Paris !" 

Night  fell.  The  infantry  regiments  began 
to  retire  in  order  down  the  hollow  of  which 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     237 

we  were  occupying  one  of  the  slopes.  Some 
mounted  Chasseurs  passed  by  at  a  trot,  fol- 
lowed by  a  whole  brigade  of  Cuirassiers.  It 
was  the  retreat! 

We  were  beaten!  .  .  .  beaten!  .  .  . 

The  enemy  was  marching  on  Paris! 

The  sun  was  now  but  a  red  crescent  on  the 
horizon.  The  horsemen  advancing  towards 
Silly  disappeared  in  their  own  dust.  We  still 
continued  firing,  lavishing  shrapnel  on  the 
plain  where  men  still  moved  here  and  there. 

"Cease  firing!" 

The  gunners  either  had  not  heard,  or  did  not 
want  to  hear.  .  .  .  Three  guns  still  barked. 
Shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice  the  Major 
repeated  the  command. 

Perspiring  and  brick-red  with  heat  the  gun- 
ners sponged  themselves  over  and  then,  with 
folded  arms,  stood  silently  behind  their  guns, 
contemplating  the  fields  of  which  not  one  square 
inch  had  been  spared. 

We  were  expecting  orders  to  retire  in  our 
turn,  but  eventually  received  instructions  to 
pass  the  night  here.  A  battalion  of  infantry 
had  been  sent  to  support  us,  and  the  men 
deployed  in  skirmishing  order  and  took  up 
positions  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the 
park,  which  we  had  had  to  form  on  the  spot. 

We  heard  that  in  front  of  us  not  a  single 


238  MY  -75 

French  unit  remained.     We  were  at  the  mercy 

of  a  cavalry  night  attack. 

Thursday,  September  10 

After  yesterday's  engagement  we  had  ex- 
pected a  furious  cannonade  to  begin  at  dawn. 
But  not  a  sound  was  heard.  The  sun  illumi- 
nated the  plain  and  the  slopes  upon  which  we 
were  waiting  for  the  enemy  in  firing  position. 
Not  a  single  gun  was  fired,  and  we  began  to 
grow  surprised  and  uneasy. 

A  Lieutenant-Colonel  at  the  head  of  a  passing 
column  recognised  the  Major  and  hailed  him. 

"Hallo!    Solente!" 

"Hallo!" 

"How  are  you?" 

"I'm  all  right,  thanks." 

"What's  your  Group  doing  here?" 

"Guarding  the  Nanteuil  road." 

"Then  you  don't  know  what's  happened?" 

"No,  what?" 

"The  enemy  retired  during  the  night." 

"No!" 

"Yes,  it's  quite  true!  We've  got  orders  to 
advance.  .  .  .  The  Germans  are  retiring  all 
along  the  line." 

The  two  officers  looked  at  each  other  and 
smiled. 

"Then  in  that  case  .      ." 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     239 

"It's  victory!" 

The  news  passed  rapidly  from  gun  to  gun 
and  nearly  set  the  men  dancing  with  joy. 
Victory,  victory!  And  just  when  we  were  not 
expecting  it! 

Towards  midday  we  also  received  orders  to 
advance. 

At  Nanteuil  a  slight  recrudescence  of  life  was 
noticeable.  A  grocer  was  taking  down  the 
wooden  shutters  of  his  shop,  and  some  of  the 
windows  were  thrown  open  as  we  went  by. 
As  at  Dammartin  I  read  on  several  of  the  doors 
the  notice:  "Gute  Leute" 

The  road  we  were  following  skirted  the  fields 
on  which  we  repulsed  the  enemy  yesterday. 
We  halted,  doubtless  waiting  for  fresh  orders. 

The  surrounding  country  was  motionless, 
but,  between  the  Paris  road  and  the  railway, 
grey-coated  corpses  lay  among  the  sugar-beets 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  On  the  fringe 
of  some  large  maize-fields  six  Germans  had 
fallen  in  a  heap.  The  last  to  die  had  top- 
pled backwards  on  to  the  others,  his  stiffened 
legs  pointing  skywards.  His  neck  was  doubled 
up  under  the  weight  of  his  body,  and  his  chin 
touched  his  chest.  His  eyes  were  wide  open 
and  his  mouth  twisted  in  a  horrible  grimace  of 
agony.  With  a  single  exception,  nothing  could 
be  seen  of  the  other  corpses  under  him  save 


240  MY  -75 

the  shoulders,  necks,  and  feet.  But  one  of 
them,  who  had  not  been  killed  outright  and 
who  lay  half  buried  beneath  the  rest,  must  have 
died  hard.  Scalped  by  a  shell  splinter  he  had 
tried  to  rid  himself  of  the  ghastly  burden  crush- 
ing his  back  and  legs,  but  his  strength  had  failed 
him.  Propped  up  on  one  elbow,  his  mouth  wide 
open  as  though  his  last  breath  had  been  a 
shout,  he  had  died  stretching  a  huge  knotted 
fist  towards  the  hills  we  had  just  left,  whence 
death  had  come  to  him. 

His  cheeks,  already  turning  grey,  had  begun 
to  fall  in,  and  in  the  stiffening  features  from 
which  all  semblance  of  life  was  rapidly  depart- 
ing one  already  seemed  to  see  the  hollow-eyed, 
square-chinned,  grinning  mask  of  Death. 

A  little  farther  on  three  Army  Service  Corps 
men  were  standing  round  a  Prussian  lying  on 
his  back,  his  arms  clasped  as  if  in  some  awful 
embrace.  As  one  of  them  lifted  his  head  in 
order  to  take  off  his  helmet  a  stream  of  black 
blood  gushed  from  the  dead  man's  mouth  and 
covered  the  soldier's  hands. 

"Pig!"  growled  he,  and  wiped  his  gory 
hands  on  the  skirts  of  the  German's  grey  coat. 

Near-by  a  Sub-Lieutenant  of  Engineers  was 
counting  the  corpses  for  burial. 

"So  it's  you  gunners  who  have  given  me  all 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  241 
this  work!  I've  already  counted  seventeen 
hundred,  and  I  haven't  finished  yet!  There'll 
be  more  than  two  thousand." 

As  I  returned,  sick  at  heart,  across  the  maize- 
fields  I  stumbled  against  something  soft. 
Suspecting  a  corpse  I  hastily  jumped  to  one 
side. 

Again  we  advanced,  towards  the  north. 

The  roadside  was  strewn  with  Mausers, 
bayonets  as  short  as  butchers'  knives,  cartridge- 
pouches,  helmets,  cowhide-packs,  wallets,  sad- 
dles, dead  horses.  .  .  . 

On  the  evening  of  the  Battle  of  Virton  the 
Ruettes  road  had  borne  a  similar  appearance. 
Upon  that  occasion  I  had  dejectedly  said  to 
myself:  "This  is  a  French  defeat,"  and  now  I 
was  equally  astonished  to  realise  that  I  had 
taken  part  in  a  victory,  of  which  these  remains 
were  the  proofs,  a  victory  which  had  snatched 
Paris  from  the  jaws  of  the  Germans,  saved 
France,  and  which  conceivably  might  open  a 
new  era  for  us  all.  In  sight  of  this  Calvary  of 
the  German  army  we  told  ourselves  that  the 
enemy  would  evacuate  France  as  quickly  as  he 
had  entered  it. 

Across  one  of  the  broad,  flat  fields  ran  a 
yellow  line  of  freshly  turned  earth,  staked  out 
with  rifles  planted  butt-end  upwards.  Hun- 


242  MY  -75 

dreds  of  men — thousands  perhaps — had  been 
buried  there  side  by  side,  and  the  air  was 
tainted  with  all  the  pestilential  odours  of  de- 
composition which  escaped  through  the  cracks 
and  fissures  in  the  sun-baked  soil.  On  ap- 
proaching one  of  the  scattered  clumps  of  trees 
under  which  other  corpses  had  been  buried,  the 
same  sickening  smell  assailed  our  nostrils.  De- 
spite ourselves  we  kept  sniffing  the  air  with  an 
uneasiness  like  that  shown  by  dogs  when  they 
are  said  to  scent  death. 

Farther  down  the  road  we  came  upon  a 
party  of  sappers  busily  plying  pick  and 
shovel.  At  the  bottom  of  a  hole  they  had 
just  finished  digging  lay  a  brown  crupper 
marked  "Uh.  3"  (3rd  Uhlans),  and  on  the 
ploughed  land  at  the  edge  of  the  ditch  lay  a 
dead  horse  covered  with  clayey  earth.  Worms 
were  swarming  in  the  putrid  blood  surrounding 
him. 

One  of  the  sappers,  who  was  covering  up 
the  carrion  with  large  spadefuls  of  earth,  looked 
up. 

"Phew!  he  smells  bad,  doesn't  he?"  he  said. 
"Nasty  job,  this!  I  shan't  apply  for  under- 
takers' work  when  I've  finished  soldiering! 
And  horses  smell  worse  than  men.  We  shall 
end  by  getting  the  plague !" 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     243 

"When  I  started  to  drag  him,"  said  another, 
"his  hoof  came  off  in  my  hand." 

And  he  pointed  with  his  foot  to  an  iron-shod 
hoof  lying  on  the  ground  like  a  stone. 

Close  by,  in  a  newly  harrowed  field,  undis- 
turbed save  for  the  hoof-prints  of  a  couple  of 
horses  which  had  galloped  across  it,  lay  two 
lances,  one  of  them  broken,  a  light  cavalry 
sword,  a  Uhlan's  helmet,  and  a  water-bottle. 

The  weather  gradually  became  foggy.  The 
fields,  monotonous  and  drab  under  the  grey  sky, 
and  littered  at  intervals  with  uniforms,  arms, 
and  corpses,  imbued  us  with  a  sadness  which 
bordered  on  fear.  We  had  to  keep  repeating 
to  ourselves  "Victory,  victory!"  in  order  once 
again  to  feel  the  joy — which  nevertheless  was 
so  deep — of  knowing  that .  the  Country  was 
saved. 

Saturday,  September  12 
For  two  days  it  has  rained  incessantly,  and 
we  have  advanced  about  twenty-two  miles  under 
the  downpour.  The  enemy  is  still  retiring,  his 
retreat  covered  by  a  few  Howitzers  which  ap- 
pear to  be  short  of  ammunition.  Each  hour 
that  passes  confirms  our  victory,  and  we  should 
be  in  excellent  spirits  were  it  not  raining  so 
heavily. 


244  MY  -75 

The  Captain  has  sent  me  to  pass  a  few 
days  with  the  first  line  of  wagons,  partly  on 
account  of  persistent  diarrhoea,  which  was 
weakening  me  considerably,  and  partly  owing 
to  a  rather  serious  cut  in  the  wrist.  Life  in  my 
new  billet  is  far  less  strenuous;  one's  rations 
are  better  cooked,  and  one  gets  plenty  of 
sleep. 

While  our  batteries  keep  up  a  lively  bom- 
bardment on  the  rear  of  the  German  columns 
in  retreat,  the  first  lines  of  wagons  are  installed 
in  a  wide  ravine  cut  right  across  the  plateau 
as  if  by  giant  swordstroke.  It  almost  seems 
as  if  the  rain  converged  in  this  hollow  from  all 
points  of  the  compass.  Shells  fall  also,  but 
they  bury  themselves  without  bursting  in  the 
marsh  near-by,  raising  geysers  of  mud. 

To-day  the  Petty  Officer  of  the  6th  gun,  to 
which  I  am  temporarily  attached,  called  the 
men  round  him: 

"Les  poilus!"* 

"Here  we  are !"  answered  a  voluntarily  re- 
enlisted  man  who  was  already  grey  about  the 
temples.  "Hairies  without  a  dry  hair  on  our 
bodies!" 

"Listen  to  this!" 

*  Poilu  (literally    "hairy")  :    a    popular    term    for    the 
French  soldier,  equivalent  to  the  English  "Tommy." 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     245 
And  in  a  hoarse  voice  the  Officer  began  to 
read  an  order  of  the  day: 

"For  five  days  without  interruption  or  respite, 
the  6th  Army  has  been  engaged  in  combat  with 
a  foe  strong  in  numbers,  whose  morale  has 
hitherto  been  exalted  by  success.  The  struggle 
has  been  a  hard  one,  and  the  loss  of  life  due  to 
gun-fire,  and  the  exhaustion  caused  by  want  of 
sleep  and  sometimes  food,  have  exceeded  all 
that  could  have  been  imagined.  The  courage, 
fortitude,  and  endurance  with  which  you  have 
borne  all  these  hardships  cannot  be  adequately 
extolled  in  words. 

"Comrades,  the  General-in-Chief  has  asked 
you,  in  the  name  of  your  Country,  to  do  more 
than  your  duty ;  you  have  responded  even  more 
heroically  than  seemed  possible.  Thanks  to 
you,  victory  has  crowned  our  arms,  and  now 
that  you  know  the  satisfaction  of  success  you 
will  never  let  it  escape  you. 

"For  my  part,  if  I  have  done  anything 
worthy  of  merit,  I  have  been  rewarded  by  the 
greatest  honour  which  in  a  long  career  has  fallen 
to  my  lot — that  of  commanding  men  such  as  you. 

"From  my  heart  I  thank  you  for  what  you 
have  done,  for  to  you  I  owe  that  which  has  been 
the  aim  of  all  my  efforts  and  ell  my  energy  for 


246  MY  -75 

the    last  forty-four   years — the    Revenge   for 

1870. 

"All  honour  and  thanks  to  you  and  to  all 
combatants  of  the  6th  Army. 

"Claye  (Seine-et-Marne)  loth  September, 
1914. 

"Signed:  Joffre. 
"Countersigned:   Manoury." 

"Hear,  hear!"  cried  some  one. 

"I  say,  sergeant,"  shouted  the  old  soldier 
who  had  spoken  before,  "as  the  General  is 
pleased  with  us,  can't  you  get  them  to  ask  him 
to  turn  off  some  of  this  water?" 

We  started  off  again.  The  country  through 
which  we  had  been  marching  since  dawn,  with 
halts  of  one  and  sometimes  two  hours  during 
which  the  guns  went  into  action,  seemed,  at 
the  first  glance,  an  endless  and  almost  deserted 
plain.  The  beetroot-  and  corn-fields  where  the 
crops,  often  in  sheaves,  had  now  rotted,  seemed 
to  succeed  each  other  without  interruption  from 
one  side  of  the  horizon  to  the  other  under  the 
lowering,  cheerless  sky,  from  which  the  cold 
rain  poured  down  relentlessly.  But  suddenly, 
in  the  middle  of  the  flat  and  barren  country, 
there  opened  a  dale  whose  existence  one  would 
never  have  suspected,  well  wooded  and  so  deep 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     247 

that  even  the  church  steeple  of  the  village  nest- 
ling in  its  lap  was  hidden  from  view. 

Under  the  stinging  rain  the  teams  walked  on 
with  heads  held  low  and  twitching  ears,  their 
coats  shining  like  oilskin.  By  this  time  many 
of  our  horses  were  only  kept  on  their  legs  as  if 
by  a  miracle.  The  foul  weather  had  put  the 
final  touch  to  their  ruin,  and  we  had  to  abandon 
three  of  them,  one  afler  the  other.  They  keep 
going  until  they  reach  the  extreme  limit  of  their 
strength,  and  then  suddenly  they  stumble  and 
stop  dead;  after  that  no  power  on  earth  will 
make  them  advance  another  inch.  They  have 
to  be  taken  out  of  the  traces,  unharnessed,  and 
abandoned  where  they  stand.  They  remain 
in  the  same  place  until  they  die. 

The  men  were  apathetic  and  taciturn  under 
their  black  cloaks.  Water  ran  down  our  backs 
and  made  us  shiver.  Many  of  the  drivers  had 
turned  their  kepis  round  so  that  the  peaks 
protected  their  necks.  Their  faces,  wincing 
under  the  sting  of  the  lashing  rain,  were  half 
hidden  in  their  upturned  collars.  Our  shirts 
clave  to  our  shoulders  and  our  trousers  to  our 
knees.  The  soaking  garments  absorbed  the 
warmth  of  the  body,  and  we  experienced  the 
horrible  sensation  of  gradually  becoming  chilled 
to  the  marrow.  It  seemed  as  if  life  was  slowly 


248  MY  -75 

ebbing  from  our  limbs  and  as  if  we  were  dying 

by  inches. 

We  passed  a  group  of  miserable,  saturated 
foot-soldiers,  from  the  skirts  of  whose  coats 
the  rain  ran  in  streams.  Some  of  them  had 
thrown  sacks  full  of  straw  over  their  shoulders. 
One  man  was  sheltering  his  head  and  back 
underneath  a  woman's  skirt,  and  others  under 
capes,  neckerchiefs,  and  flowery-patterned  bed- 
curtains. 

The  road  was  a  river  of  liquid  clay  upon 
which  neither  the  men's  boots,  horseshoes,  nor 
the  tyres  of  the  wheels  left  a  trace. 

As  night  approached  the  grey  vault  of  the 
sky  seemed  to  sink  still  lower,  drawing  in  the 
horizon  over  the  fields,  and  almost  to  touch 
the  earth  itself.  A  dense  fog  first  surrounded 
and  then  smothered  us.  We  could  not  have 
told  upon  which  side  the  sun  was  setting;  the 
west  was  as  opaque  as  the  east.  The  yellow, 
diffused  light  gradually  became  weaker.  Here 
and  there  by  the  wayside  we  could  still  distin- 
guish the  dark  forms  of  dead  horces.  Night 
fell.  The  rain  was  trickling  down  my  back  as 
far  as  my  loins.  I  was  very  cold  and  now  felt 
more  acutely  than  ever  that  indescribable  sensa- 
tion as  if  my  life's  blood  was  being  slowly 
sucked  from  my  veins.  The  battery  lumbered 
on  and  on. 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  249 
It  was  perhaps  ten  o'clock  when  we  finally 
halted  on  the  outskirts  of  a  village  and  ranged 
up  our  carriages  by  the  side  of  the  road.  We 
had  to  wait  there  some  time,  sitting  motionless 
on  the  limbers  and  becoming  more  frozen 
every  minute.  Our  teeth  chattered  with  cold. 
The  delay  was  probably  caused  by  a  cross- 
roads, a  block  in  the  transport  traffic,  a  passing 
convoy,  or  some  other  obstacle ;  in  any  case  we 
could  not  move  on.  I  began  to  wonder  whether 
we  should  have  to  pass  the  whole  night  in  the 
rain.  .  .  . 

Eventually  we  reached  a  field  in  which  we 
bivouacked,  stretching  the  lines  between  the 
carriages.  The  hurricane  lamps  formed  large 
yellow  points  in  the  opaque  darkness,  piercing 
the  night  without  lighting  anything.  There 
was  no  sound  save  the  squelching  of  dragging 
footsteps  as  the  exhausted  men  and  horses 
moved  about  in  the  mud. 

The  sergeant-major  summoned  the  corporals 
for  the  issue  of  rations.  But  the  distribution 
between  the  guns  had  not  been  finished  and 
the  men  immediately  went  away  again,  pre- 
ferring to  wait  until  the  next  day  to  get  their 
rations.  The  sergeant-major  shouted  after 
them,  declaring  that  if  there  should  be  an  alarm 
they  would  risk  going  for  a  whole  day  without 


250  MY  -75 

food.      He   was  perfectly   right,   but  no   one 

listened  to  him. 

The  darkness  was  so  intense  that  it  was 
difficult  to  follow  the  road,  and  in  order  to 
keep  together  the  men  kept  shouting: 

"Eleventh!  .  .  .  This  way.  .  .  .  Eleventh! 

>» 

Convoys  passed  by,  splashing  us  with  mud. 
A  wheel  just  grazed  me.  After  a  long  march 
the  only  shelter  we  could  find  was  some  rickety 
old  barns,  open  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  in 
which  a  thin  sprinkling  of  straw  hardly  sep- 
arated us  from  the  beaten-down  earth.  Here 
the  battery,  silent,  soaked  to  the  skin  and  smell- 
ing like  wet  animals,  sank  shivering  into  a 
troubled  sleep,  continually  interrupted  by  the 
cries  of  men  dreaming. 

Sunday,  September  13 

This  morning  the  sun  was  shining.  Clouds 
were  still  banked  up  to  the  west,  but  the  blue, 
which  cheered  us  up  wonderfully,  eventually 
spread  over  the  whole  sky.  We  continued  our 
march  forward. 

The  enemy's  Howitzers  were  still  bombard- 
ing the  country  round  us,  but  spasmodically  and 
at  haphazard.  The  Germans  were  being  hotly 
pursued;  in  the  villages  we  learned  that  less 
than  two  hours  previously  stragglers  were  still 
passing  through.  It  seems  that  yesterday  the 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     251 

enemy's  retreat  almost  became  a  rout.  Dis- 
banded infantrymen  without  arms,  gunners,  dis- 
mounted horsemen — all  fled  pell-mell,  pursued 
by  the  fire  of  our  .75*8  and  harassed  by  our 
advanced  guard. 

At  Vic-sur-Aisne,  while  waiting  till  the  pon- 
toon bridge  should  be  clear,  I  entered  a  pretty 
little  house,  the  doors  and  windows  of  which 
had  been  left  wide  open  by  the  Germans  on 
their  departure.  The  wardrobes  and  chests  of 
drawers  had  all  been  broken  into  and  pillaged. 
Women's  chemises  and  drawers  together  with 
other  underlinen  were  trailing  down  the  stair- 
case. A  meal  was  served  on  the  dining-room 
table,  but  the  overturned  chairs  bore  witness 
to  the  precipitation  with  which  the  guests 
had  fled.  I  was  hungry  and  sat  down  with- 
out hesitation.  The  food  was  good  although 
cold. 

The  leading  carriages  of  the  column  had  al- 
ready begun  to  cross  the  bridge  before  I  learned 
that  the  luncheon  I  had  just  eaten  had  been 
prepared  for  the  Grand  Duke  of  Mecklenburg- 
Schwerin,  but  had  been  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  the  French  advanced  guard. 

We  crossed  the  Aisne  without  difficulty. 
How  came  it  that  the  enemy  was  allowing 
us  to  cross  the  river?  The  thought  of  a  trap, 
such  as  that  we  laid  for  the  Germans  when 


252  MY  -75 

they    crossed    the    Meuse,    made    me    a    little 

uneasy. 

Near  Attichy  our  batteries  went  off  to  take 
up  position,  while  the  first  lines  of  wagons 
halted  on  a  winding  road  leading  to  the  plateau 
through  some  extremely  dense  woods,  all  damp 
and  odorous  after  the  rains  of  yesterday.  In 
a  little  quarry  of  white  stone  yawning  on  one 
side  of  the  road  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sun, 
I  lay  down  with  a  few  comrades  in  some  tall 
ferns.  I  was  nearly  asleep  when,  suddenly, 
the  noise  of  a  bursting  shell,  which  had  just 
fallen  close  by,  spread  in  vibrant  waves 
through  the  trees,  of  which  every  leaf  seemed 
to  rustle. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  quarry  appeared  a 
gunner  staggering  from  side  to  side,  his  face 
deathly  pale.  He  grasped  his  right  elbow  with 
his  left  hand  and  let  himself  fall  among  the 
bracken. 

"Oh!"  he  murmured,  "I'm  hit!" 

"Where?" 

With  a  slight  movement  of  the  head  he 
indicated  his  elbow,  which  was  cut  open  and 
bleeding.  And,  suddenly,  from  the  road  which 
at  this  point  made  two  successive  bends  and 
then  plunged  beneath  a  dark  vault  of  big  beech- 
trees,  came  a  confused  sound  of  groans,  cries, 
and  stamping. 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     253 

A  driver  hurried  up  without  his  kepi,  his  face 
streaming  with  blood. 

"Come  quickly  .  .  .  it's  fallen  down  there 
.  .  .  it's  fallen  on  the  road!  Everything's 
all  messed  up,  the  horses  are  on  top.  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  God!  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  wounded?" 

"No  .  .  .  where?" 

"Your  cheek.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing — it's  a  horse,  my  off- 
horse.  .  .  .  Come  on!" 

More  shells  whistled  overhead.  We  started 
to  run.  Suddenly,  at  the  bend  of  the  road  I 
stopped  dead,  breathless,  paralysed  by  a  ghastly 
sight. 

Under  the  sun,  which,  breaking  through 
the  branches,  marbled  the  white  road,  lay 
a  shapeless  mass  of  mangled  men  and  horses. 
The  entire  teams  of  the  forge  and  store  wagon 
were  welded  together  in  a  writhing  heap  of 
bleeding  flesh.  Men  were  struggling  under- 
neath. In  the  middle  of  the  road  lay  two  gun- 
ners, face  downwards;  others  were  dragging 
themselves  about  on  their  hands  among  the 
fallen  saddle-horses.  Wounded  were  moving 
in  the  ditches. 

From  this  shambles  rose  long-drawn-out 
groans  similar  to  the  harrowing  cries  made  by 
certain  animals  at  night,  a  muffled  and  intermin- 


254  MY  -75 

able  "Aaah!  .  .  .  aaahl"  rising  and  falling 
like  some  savage  song.  Blood  was  running  in 
streams  in  the  gutters  on  each  side  of  the  way. 
A  nauseating  stale  stench,  like  that  of  a 
slaughter-house,  a  sort  of  warmth,  an  odour  of 
steaming  flesh  and  flowing  blood,  a  smell  of 
horses,  entrails,  and  animal  gasses  gripped  our 
throats  and  turned  our  stomachs. 

One  man,  who  lay  buried  beneath  the  team 
of  the  forge,  had  succeeded  in  passing  his  arm 
through  a  mass  of  tangled  intestines,  but  the 
viscera  had  gripped  his  wrist  in  a  tenacious 
grasp.  He  shook  them  furiously,  scattering 
jets  of  blood  in  all  directions.  Round  him  the 
horses  lay  writhing  in  their  death  agony,  break- 
ing wind,  dunging,  staling,  and  scraping  the 
ground  with  their  stiffening  limbs,  their  shoes 
grating  stridently  on  the  flints.  In  their  death- 
throes  they  strained  at  the  traces  and  one- heard 
a  noise  of  cracking  chains.  The  vehicle  to 
which  they  were  harnessed  advanced  a  few 
inches,  and  then  rolled  back. 

Near-by  lay  a  dead  foot-soldier,  his  whole 
chest  one  gaping  wound.  In  his  wide-open  blue 
eyes  was  a  fixed  expression  of  horror  that  went 
to  my  heart  like  a  knife.  An  artilleryman,  his 
stomach  ripped  open,  had  been  pinned  to  the 
bank  in  an  almost  erect  posture  by  a  wounded 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  255 
horse  which,  bleeding  at  the  nostrils,  had  fallen 
across  his  feet 

Whenever  the  groaning  and  wailing  stopped 
for  a  second  one  heard  the  noise  of  the  blood 
as  it  burbled  and  trickled  stream  by  stream  and 
drop  by  drop,  and  the  gurgle  of  the  intestines 
which  lay  in  an  entangled  pink  and  white  mass 
on  the  road. 

I  ran  to  help  the  man  buried  under  the 
forge  team.  His  face  was  red  all  over,  and 
horribly  convulsed,  his  hair  and  beard  glued 
with  blood,  and  his  white  eyeballs  rolling  like 
those  of  one  asphyxiated.  A  horse  in  its 
agony  was  threatening  to  kill  a  gunner 
wounded  in  the  loins  who  was  dragging  himself 
along  on  his  hands,  so  I  quickly  killed  the 
animal  with  a  revolver  shot.  It  was  only  then 
that  I  perceived,  stretched  out  between  two 

horses,  my  friend  M ,  very  pale,  with 

closed  eyes.  I  ran  up  and  put  my  arm  round 
him  in  order  to  lift  him  up.  .  .  .  All  my  blood 
suddenly  ceased  to  flow,  my  heart  stopped 
beating.  .  .  .  My  arm  had  sunk  up  to  the 
elbow  in  an  enormous  wound  in  my  friend's 
back.  .  .  . 

I  stood  up.  For  an  instant  the  ghastly 
scene  turned  round  and  round.  ...  I  thought 
that  I  should  faint  with  horror.  I  put  my 
hand — dripping  with  blood — to  my  forehead. 


256  MY  -75 

...  I  daubed  my  face  with  gore.  In  order 
not  to  fall  I  had  to  lean  up  against  the  wheel 
of  the  forge. 

A  hospital  orderly  had  succeeded  in 
extricating  a  couple  of  untouched  stretchers 
from  the  ambulance,  which  had  also  been 
shattered  by  the  shell.  On  one  side  of  the  road 
the  Medical  Officer,  still  much  upset,  himself 
slightly  wounded  by  the  explosion,  was  occupied 
with  some  first-aid  dressing.  Three  of  us 
hoisted  on  to  one  of  the  stretchers  a  big,  fair- 
haired  gunner  with  a  Gaulois  moustache,  whose 
foot,  almost  completely  severed  from  the  leg, 
dangled  in  the  air,  and  who  was  yelling  with 
pain.  We  remembered  that  there  was  a  dress- 
ing-station at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  the  fringe 
of  the  woods. 

We  started  off,  bending  our  knees  in  order 
to  jolt  the  stretcher  as  little  as  possible,  but 
we  continually  had  to  step  over  the  scattered 
limbs  of  horses  and  pick  our  way  between 
corpses  so  disfigured  as  to  be  unrecognisable. 

A  wounded  man  clasped  my  leg  as  we 
passed,  lifting  up  a  deathly  face  which  the 
blood,  running  from  his  ear,  had  surrounded 
with  a  gory  collar.  His  eyes  implored  us  to 
stop,  and  in  a  low  voice  of  profound  supplica- 
tion he  murmured: 

"For  God's  sake  don't  leave  me  here  I" 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     257 

But  we  could  not  carry  two  men  at  a  time. 
I  bent  down  a  little: 

"The  others  will  be  along  in  a  minute 
or  two  with  the  other  stretcher.  They'll 
take  you.  Come,  now,  let  go  of  my 
foot!  .  .  ." 

We  left  the  scene  of  carnage  and  began  to 
breathe  again.  .  .  . 

The  closely  meshed  cloth  of  the  stretcher 
retained  the  blood  of  the  wounded  man,  whose 
foot  swam  in  a  red  pool.  He  was  suffering 
horribly  and  twisted  his  arms  together, 
groaning: 

"Oh,  my  foot!  .  .  .  You're  shaking  me. 
.  .  .  Oh,  how  you're  shaking  me!" 

And  then : 

"For  God's  sake  walk  slowly!" 

In  spite  of  all  our  efforts  we  could  not  avoid 
the  shaking  which  caused  him  so  much  pain, 
and  he  continued  to  murmur,  his  voice  getting 
fainter  and  fainter: 

"Walk,  walk  .  .  .  slowly!  .  .  ." 

His  lips  silently  repeated  "walk"  until  a 
fresh  jolt  made  him  cry  out. 

In  front  of  the  field-hospital  some  medica^ 
officers  had  improvised  an  operating-table  in  a 
shady  part  of  the  road.  The  wounded  were 
laid  out  in  rows  on  the  edge  of  the  ditch.  A 


258  MY  .75 

fat  doctor  with  four  stripes  on  his  arm  ran 

hither  and  thither,  shouting. 

Carried  on  stretchers  or  limping  on  foot, 
either  alone  or  with  the  aid  of  their  comrades, 
the  wounded  arrived.  One  man's  chin  was  no 
more  than  a  bloody  jelly;  one  of  his  eyes  was 
shut  and  the  other  wide  open. 

The  veterinary  surgeon's  horse,  shot  through 
by  a  shell  splinter,  had  followed  the  wounded 
as  far  as  the  ambulance,  but  as  soon  as  he 
stopped  he  sank  to  his  knees  by  the  side  of  the 
road.  The  eyes  of  the  animal  were  full  of  a 
suffering  almost  human,  and  as  he  turned  his 
head  towards  me  I  fired  my  revolver  in  his  ear. 
With  a  dull,  heavy  thud  like  that  of  an  axe  as 
it  sinks  deep  in  a  tree-trunk,  the  animal  fell  on 
his  flank,  and  from  the  top  of  the  slope  skirt- 
ing the  road  rolled  over  twice  into  the  field 
below. 

We  had  at  once  to  return  to  the  scene  of 
slaughter,  where  we  were  badly  needed.  As 
soon  as  I  left  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine  and  re- 
entered  the  woods  I  felt  almost  paralysed  by 
the  thought  of  what  I  was  going  to  see,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  growing  darker  as  the 
daylight  waned,  helped  to  intensify  my  fear. 

"Come  on!  .  .  ." 

Two  saddle-horses  with  bleeding  wounds 
were  walking  away  from  the  shambles  by 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     259 

instinct.  With  faltering  steps  they  slowly  de- 
scended the  road  towards  the  sun.  The  dead 
horses  had  been  unharnessed  and  dragged  to 
one  side  of  the  way,  but  two  artillerymen  had 
been  left  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
some  one,  either  out  of  force  of  habit  or  out 
of  pity  for  the  dead,  had  broken  two  branches 
off  one  of  the  beeches  and  had  covered  their 
faces  with  leaves. 

In  the  gutters  the  rivers  of  blood  had  become 
congealed.  The  hot,  fetid  smell,  imprisoned 
under  the  vault  of  the  trees,  still  floated  in  the 
air,  more  nauseating  and  terrifying  than  ever. 
The  efforts  the  men  had  made  in  order  to  un- 
harness the  horses  and  clear  the  roadway  had 
caused  the  intestines  to  split  and  break,  and 
they  now  trailed  about  everywhere,  covered 
with  dust,  separated  by  several  yards  from  the 
gaping,  empty  bodies  from  which  they  had  been 
torn. 

Two  prisoners,  tall  men  whose  height  was 
increased  by  their  long  grey  cloaks  and  pointed 
helmets,  came  down  from  the  plateau.  The 
foot-soldiers  accompanying  them,  fearing  that 
this  spectacle  of  death  might  cause  their 
enemies  too  keen  a  delight,  had  blindfolded 
them,  and  led  them  by  the  hand  in  and  out 
the  corpses.  But  the  Germans  had  recognised 
the  smell  of  blood.  A  line  of  uneasiness  barred 


260  MY  -75 

their  foreheads  and  they  continually  sniffed  the 

tainted  air. 

Monday,  September  14 

At  Attichy  we  spent  the  night  in  some 
splendid,  well-closed  barns  in  which  the  hay  lay 
deep,  but  our  rest  was  disturbed  by  horrible 
nightmares.  I  dreamt  that  I  was  rolling  among 
mutilated  corpses  in  rivers  of  blood.  When 
I  awoke  it  was  raining. 

A  countryman  with  a  drooping  white 
moustache  brought  us  some  beer  and  wine  in 
buckets.  He  lived  in  an  isolated  house  easily 
visible  from  our  barn,  in  a  copse  on  the  side 
of  the  hill.  During  the  German  occupation  he 
had  left  his  house  as  being  too  solitary  and  had 
taken  up  his  quarters  in  the  village.  When 
the  enemy  took  their  departure  the  day  before 
yesterday  he  had  returned  to  his  house 
accompanied  by  a  foot-soldier.  He  was  going 
on  ahead  when  through  the  broken-in  front 
door  he  saw,  in  the  hall,  a  helmeted  German 
in  the  act  of  aiming  at  him.  He  jumped  to 
one  side,  exposing  the  French  soldier  behind 
him,  whereupon  the  German  at  once  dropped 
his  rifle  and  threw  up  his  hands.  The  two 
Frenchmen  seized  him  and,  sitting  him  down 
on  a  chair  in  the  kitchen,  shot  him  through  the 
head.  There  they  left  him,  still  sitting,  his 
head  on  his  breast  and  the  blood  dripping 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  261 
from  his  forehead  between  his  knees  on  to  the 
tiled  floor,  and  went  off  to  reconnoitre  the 
surroundings  of  the  house  and  the  garden. 
They  could  discover  nothing  suspicious,  but 
when  they  returned  to  the  kitchen  they  found 
it  empty.  Nothing  remained  of  the  German 
save  a  pool  of  blood  in  front  of  the  chair. 
But  near  the  door  and  on  the  stairs  were  red 
stains  and  they  heard  groans  coming  from  the 
garret. 

We  asked  the  peasant: 

"Well,  what  did  you  do  with  your  Boche?" 

"Oh,  he's  still  in  my  garret,"  he  answered 
placidly. 

"But  you  must  get  him  out  of  that.  He'll 
soon  begin  to  smell!" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  dig  a  hole  for  him  to- 
night near  the  dung-heap." 

And,  as  I  ventured  to  say  that  instead  of 
killing  the  man  treacherously  they  might  have 
taken  him  prisoner,  seeing  that  he  had 
surrendered: 

"Why?"  asked  the  peasant  "Wouldn't  he 
have  killed  me  if  I'd  been  all  alone?  And  yet 
I'm  a  civilian!" 

"No  I"  he  added,  "we  shall  never  kill  enough 
of  those  swine  I" 

The  wind  had   risen   and  the   rain  ceased. 


262  MY  -75 

Our  Group  advanced  along  the  Compiegne 
road,  which  runs  by  the  side  of  the  river.  But 
we  had  hardly  gone  a  mile  when  the  word  was 
given  to  halt.  We  prepared  to  make  our  soup, 
but  there  was  no  water,  and  I  searched  in  vain 
for  a  spring  or  well.  Finally  we  decided  to 
draw  water  from  the  Aisne.  On  the  opposite 
bank  a  dead  German  was  lying  among  the 
rushes,  half  his  body  submerged  in  the  stream. 
Well,  we  would  boil  the  water,  that  was  all! 
One  must  eat ! 

As  night  fell  a  horseman  arrived  with  orders. 
We  set  off  at  a  trot. 

Under  the  lee  of  a  high  wall  some  Spahis 
were  resting,  their  burnous  making  red  patches 
in  the  dusk.  Near  them  their  little  horses 
stood  motionless  under  their  complicated  har- 
ness. Against  an  apple-tree  leaned  an  Arab 
with  magnificently  cut  features,  as  regular  as 
those  of  a  statue.  Under  the  purple,  woollen 
hood  his  brown  face  bore  an  expression  of  that 
resigned  melancholy,  at  once  so  pitiful  and  so 
noble,  in  which  men  of  his  race  always  languish 
when  far  from  the  desert.  His  large,  apathetic 
black  eyes,  which  seemed  fixed  upon  something 
in  the  distance,  had  a  mystic  look  in  them. 
He  appeared  to  feel  cold.  The  gunners  greeted 
him  smiling: 

"Hallo!  oldSidi!" 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     263 

But  the  Arab,  without  moving,  only 
replied  with  a  condescending  blink  of  his 
eyes. 

The  batteries  took  up  position,  the  first 
line  of  wagons  halting  behind  a  screen  of 
acacias.  The  silence  of  the  night  was  hardly 
broken  by  a  confused  murmur  of  the  far-off 
battle  when  suddenly,  as  if  at  a  given  signal, 
more  than  forty  French  field-guns,  almost  in 
unison,  fired  a  terrific  volley  across  the 
plateau. 

The  vivid  flashes  from  the  muzzles  cleft 
the  twilight  like  red  lightning.  The  air  con- 
tinued to  vibrate.  It  was  as  though  the  atmos- 
phere were  filled  with  huge  sound-waves  dash- 
ing and  splitting  one  against  the  other  like  the 
waves  of  the  ocean  in  a  storm.  The  earth 
quivered  in  response  to  the  twanging  air.  Grad- 
ually the  night  became  darker. 

Our  batteries  were  certainly  firing  at  regis- 
tered aiming-points.  The  enemy  only  replied 
now  and  again,  and  then  at  haphazard. 

Suddenly  a  rumour  began  to  circulate : 

"The  Germans  are  embarking!  That  station 
is  being  bombarded!  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  well,  I  shouldn't  prevent  'em  taking 
their  tickets,"  said  an  imperturbable-looking 
reservist.  "I  shouldn't  interfere  with  'em. 
Let  them  clear  out  and  let  us  go  back  home. 


264  MY  '75 

I've   a  wife   and  two  kiddies.     It's  no  joke, 

war!  .  .  ." 

It  was  pitch-dark  when  the  guns,  one  by  one, 
gradually  became  silent.  In  a  few  moments 
there  was  complete  stillness,  a  stillness  almost 
surprising,  almost  disturbing  after  the  deafen- 
ing cannonade. 

We  rejoined  the  batteries.  Noiselessly,  one 
behind  the  other,  the  carriages  plunged  like 
phantoms  into  the  darkness,  the  soft  field,  as  it 
yielded  under  the  wheels,  giving  a  strange  im- 
pression of  cotton-wool.  The  nocturnal  clarity, 
diffused  and  as  if  floating,  did  not  enable  us  to 
see  what  kind  of  field  it  was  which  the  long 
column  was  crossing  without  a  jolt  or  jangle, 
with  only  an  occasional  creaking  of  badly  oiled 
wheels. 

The  whole  countryside  smelt  of  death,  and 
this  was  not  due  to  imagination.  Far  off  a 
burning  building  stood  out  like  a  fixed  point  of 
light.  The  massive  trees  of  a  neighbouring 
park  filled  us  with  nameless  fears. 

The  wheel  of  the  limber  passed  over  some- 
thing soft  and  elastic  which  yielded  under  the 
weight.  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  a  dead  man,  and 
looked  behind  me  fearfully.  But  I  could  see 
nothing. 

We  halted  on  the  outskirts  of  a  village  called 
Tracy-le-Mont,  where  the  supply-train  was 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     265 

waiting  for  us.  Rations  were  issued,  the  men 
in  their  cloaks  standing  in  a  black  circle 
round  the  provision  wagon,  which  was  lit  by 
a  solitary  lantern.  Hutin  and  Deprez  were 
among  them.  Somebody  was  calling  out  the 
guns: 

"Third!  .  .  .  Fourth  1  .  .  ." 

"First!"  cried  Hutin. 

"You've  missed  your  turn.  You'll  have  to 
come  last  now." 

We  talked  while  waiting.  Hutin  was  very 
tired  and  hungry. 

"There's  some  good  grub  going,"  said  he. 
"We're  going  to  get  some  fresh  meat." 

"Yes,  but  fires  will  be  forbidden." 

"I  suppose  you  haven't  seen  the  post- 
master?" he  asked  suddenly. 

"No,  why?" 

"Because  in  the  first  line  you  see  him  more 
often  than  we  do." 

"Well,  I've  begun  to  doubt  whether  there  is 
such  a  person." 

"It's  true.  .  .  .  The  brute  never  turns  up! 
Confound  it  all!  If  only  we  got  letters  some- 
times the  time  would  pass  quicker.  The  last 
I  had  was  simply  to  say  that  they  hadn't  any 
news  of  me.  It  does  seem  hard!" 

"First  gun!" 

"At    last,"    said    Hutin.      "Good-bye,    old 


266  MY  -75 

chap !     I'm  off  to  get  my  grub.     Try  to  get 

back  to  us  soon." 

Tuesday,  September  15 

It  was  splendid  weather  when  we  awoke. 
During  the  night  it  had  rained  a  little,  but  we 
had  surrounded  our  guns  with  armfuls  of  hay 
gathered  from  some  large  ricks  near-by.  I 
slept  under  the  ammunition  wagon,  which 
sheltered  me  as  far  as  the  knees,  and  I  had 
covered  my  feet  with  a  couple  of  sheaves.  The 
ground  was  not  very  damp  and  I  slept  well  in 
spite  of  the  shower. 

With  the  dawn  the  sky  cleared.  The  air 
was  soft  and  warm,  and  the  tall  trees  in  their 
infinite  variety  of  green  shades  stood  out  in 
clear-cut  silhouettes  against  the  pale  blue  of 
the  sky.  The  grass,  although  cut  short,  now 
that  the  summer  was  ending,  had  regained 
some  of  its  lost  freshness. 

Here  and  there  in  the  fields  dark  heaps 
arrested  the  eye.  These  were  the  bodies  of 
fallen  Germans.  Once  one  has  seen  three  or 
four  one  instinctively  searches  for  them  every- 
where, and  a  forgotten  wheat-sheaf  in  the  dis~ 
stance  looks  like  a  corpse. 

We  started,  the  wheels  of  the  leading 
carriages  tracing  a  well-marked  track  across 
the  fields.  On  one  side  lay  a  dead  German. 
The  vehicles  had  brushed  by  him  as  they 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  267 
passed  and  would  have  crushed  his  feet  had  the 
drivers  not  seen  him  in  time.  His  face  was 
still  waxen  in  colour,  and  the  eye-sockets  alone 
had  begun  to  turn  green.  The  solemn,  reg- 
ular features  were  not  lacking  in  a  certain  virile 
beauty. 

The  man  sitting  next  me  on  the  wagon 
looked  long  at  the  dead  man's  face  as  if  trying 
to  catch  his  last  expression. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  he,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

A  little  moved  myself,  I  echoed: 

"Yes,  poor  devil!" 

But  the  wheel-driver,  who  had  left  a  wife 
and  children  behind  him,  and  was  wondering 
how  they  fared,  turned  in  his  saddle: 

"Dirty  pig!"  he  growled. 

This  morning  the  battle  started  early  and 
with  unusual  violence  on  a  front  which 
appeared  to  stretch  from  east  to  west.  As  far 
as  one  could  see  the  sky  was  fleecy  with  shell 
smoke. 

"There!  .  .  .  And  they  said  the  Germans 
were  going — were  embarking!  Do  you  see 
them  over  there?  .  .  .  Brutes!" 

"Yes.     They  were  disembarking!" 

The  men  bitterly  cursed  their  erstwhile 
credulity.  Nevertheless  I  knew  that  this 


268  MY  -75 

evening  they  would  be   ready  to  believe  the 

news  that  the    Russians   had   reached   Berlin, 

provided    that    it    was    sufficiently    vigorously 

affirmed. 

We  learned  the  truth  from  some  passing  foot- 
soldiers.  The  Germans  had  entrenched  them- 
selves strongly  on  the  wooded  hills  and  in  the 
quarries.  The  pursuit  was  held  up,  and  a  new 
battle  was  about  to  begin. 

I  asked  a  sergeant: 

"But  those  aren't  the  Germans  we  were  on 
the  heels  of  yesterday  and  the  day  before,  are 
they?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "these  must  be  troops 
which  were  behind  them  in  Belgium." 

The  first  line,  installed  in  a  narrow  valley, 
replenished  every  half-hour  the  battery  which, 
in  position  near  a  large  farm,  was  emptying 
wagonful  after  wagonful  of  shells.  The  Ger- 
man artillery  swept  the  plain,  and  some  six-inch 
Howitzers,  whose  objective  seemed  to  be  the 
bend  of  a  neighbouring  road,  aiming  too  high, 
threatened  to  catch  us  in  enfilading  fire  at 
any  moment.  On  the  other  hand,  one  of  their 
77  mm.  batteries  had  opened  fire  on  a  wood 
commanding  the  other  end  of  the  valley. 
There  could  be  no  thought  of  trying  to  get 
out  of  this  uncomfortable  position  by  way  of 
the  plain.  The  enemy  would  see  us  and  his 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  269 
Howitzers  would  reach  us  with  ease.  The 
officer  in  charge  of  the  train,  Lieutenant 
Boutroux,  was  perplexed.  Finally  he  decided 
to  face  the  77  mm.  guns,  and  we  began  to  work 
round  the  edge  of  the  wood,  shrapnel  shell 
bursting  over  our  heads.  Soon  the  valley 
curved  inwards.  The  danger  zone  was  passed. 
Unscathed,  and  keeping  well  screened  from  the 
enemy,  we  took  up  a  fresh  position  in  another 
gully  almost  exactly  similar  to  that  we  had 
just  left. 

We  lacked  water,  and  in  order  to  find  it  had 
to  follow  a  path  leading  across  the  field  to  some 
barns,  from  the  roofs  of  which  pipes  ran  down 
into  a  couple  of  water-tanks.  A  ladder  was 
propped  up  against  one  of  the  latter,  and  I 
climbed  up  out  of  curiosity.  The  metal  plating 
of  the  inside  was  covered  with  rust,  and  out  of 
the  turbid  water,  which  was  slowly  sinking, 
emerged  an  old  boot,  a  felt  cap,  and  all  sorts 
of  shapeless  objects  of  cloth  or  metal,  coated 
with  green  slime.  We  had  nevertheless  to  con- 
tent ourselves  with  this  water!  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  the  battle  was  indicative  of  no 
decision;  it  neither  approached  nor  became 
fainter.  The  wounded  who  passed  told  us 
that  since  the  morning  the  infantry  had  been 
continually  launched  against  the  strong  en- 


270  MY  -75 

trenchments  without  being  able  to  break 
through  them.  The  gun-fire  did  not  slacken 
until  nightfall. 

We  rejoined  the  batteries,  cutting  across  the 
plain  now  hidden  from  the  enemy  by  the 
falling  darkness.  Somewhere  a  machine-gun 
was  still  crackling.  A  thin  rain  was  floating  in 
the  air  and  we  rapidly  became  wet  through. 
We  had  to  lie  in  the  open  among  the  sugar- 
beets,  and  the  horses  were  not  taken  out  of  the 
vehicles. 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  sleep.  The 
moment  we  lay  still  we  began  to  shiver  and  our 
teeth  chattered.  I  had  a  vague  fear  that  the 
cold,  which  ran  down  my  spine  in  long 
shudders,  might  kill  me  unawares  if  I  went  to 
sleep. 

My  feet  resting  on  the  wheel,  I  curled  up 
on  the  top  of  the  ammunition  wagon,  preferring 
the  icy  contact  of  the  steel  to  the  dampness  of 
the  ground.  The  rain  began  to  fall  more 
heavily. 

Wednesday,  September  16 

Quite  early  this  morning  the  dull,  far-off 
thud  of  a  Howitzer  echoed  and  re-echoed,  and 
immediately  afterwards,  as  if  fired  by  a  train 
of  powder,  all  the  guns  on  the  plateau  began 
to  roar. 

Astruc  came  up: 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  271 
"Lord!"  said  he,  "I  had  a  funny  ex- 
perience last  night!  Just  think  ...  the 
others  had  bagged  all  the  places  under  the 
wagons,  and,  as  I  was  looking  about,  I  saw  a 
great  big  chap,  at  least  six  feet  long,  covered 
over  with  a  blanket  in  the  middle  of  the  field. 
'Well,'  said  I  to  myself,  'if  there's  room  for 
one  there's  room  for  two,'  and  I  lifted  up  the 
blanket  and  snuggled  in  beside  him.  But 
as  I  went  to  sleep  I  pulled  it  little  by  little  to 
my  side.  Suddenly  the  long  'un  sits  up,  wide 
awake,  and  starts  shaking  me!  ...  At  first 
I  said  nothing — pretended  to  be  asleep.  I  was 
so  tired!  But  he  went  on  shaking  me,  and 
then  he  shouted:  'What  the  blazes  do  you 
think  you're  doing?'  Finally  I  grunted,  'All 
right!  No  need  to  make  such  a  row.  .  .  .' 
And  then  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  got  up.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  who  it  was?  ...  It  was  the 
Major!  I'd  pulled  his  blanket  off  him!  I 
didn't  lose  my  head.  I  told  him  that  I  felt 
awfully  ill — fit  to  die — and  that  there  wasn't 
any  more  room  underneath  the  wagon.  .  .  . 
Then  he  muttered  something,  I  don't  know 
what,  and  settled  down  again.  I  didn't 
hesitate  an  instant,  but  lay  down  beside 
him.  Then  he  said:  'Well,  for  God's 
sake  don't  take  all  the  blanket,  at  any 
rate!'" 


272  MY  -75 

The  battery  went  off  to  take  up  position,  and 
the  first  line  of  wagons  returned  to  the  gully 
where  we  sheltered  yesterday. 

My  wrist  was  hurting  me.  In  spite  of  the 
dressing  the  wound  had  been  poisoned  by  the 
blood  of  the  wounded  and  dead  at  Attichy. 

The  postmaster  arrived  with  a  sackful  of 
letters. 

"At  home  they  seem  to  think  the  war  will 
last  until  New  Year,"  said  somebody. 

"But  the  Russians?" 

"Oh!  the  Russians.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  let's  see  ...  October,  November, 
December.  .  .  .  That  makes  another  three 
months  and  a  half.  .  .  .  Why,  we  shall  all  be 
dead  of  exposure  before  then!" 

Hardly  five  hundred  yards  away  from  our 
park  some  big  farm  buildings  suddenly  burst 
into  flames,  the  walls  surrounding  the  yard 
showing  up  on  the  bare  fields  like  a  massive 
square  of  luminous  masonry.  The  smoke  at 
first  rose  in  heavy,  dark  spirals  pierced  here 
and  there  by  yellow  flashes  and  then  shot 
straight  up  into  the  clear  sky  in  a  tall  column. 

We  knew  that  there  were  sheep  in  the  farm. 
The  bombardment  had  ceased,  and  I  decided 
to  save  one  or  two  of  the  animals  in  order  to 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  273 
supplement  our  ordinary  rations.  Two  gun- 
ners of  the  1 2th  Battery,  the  carriages  of  which 
were  lined  up  close  to  ours,  had  the  same  idea. 

We  set  out  for  the  farm  as  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible. The  field  we  had  to  cross  had  been 
ploughed  up  yesterday  by  the  German  Howit- 
zers. The  enemy  doubtless  thought  that  in- 
fantry lay  concealed  behind  the  buildings,  and 
the  whole  day  long  his  heavy  guns  had  vainly 
mown  down  the  sugar-beets. 

"They've  gone  to  work  as  though  they 
wanted  to  plant  trees  in  fives,"  remarked  one 
of  my  companions.  And  he  added: 

"And  they've  done  the  job  jolly  well!  I 
know  something  about  it,  for  I'm  a  gardener." 

On  the  edge  of  a  shell  crater  two  gendarmes 
lay  stretched  side  by  side  among  the  scattered 
clods  of  earth.  One  of  them,  a  big,  red-haired 
man,  had  a  great  gaping  wound  in  his  chest, 
and  his  right  arm,  doubled  up  in  a  strange  pos- 
ture, looked  as  if  it  had  two  elbows.  The  body 
of  the  other,  a  grey-headed  corporal,  seemed 
untouched,  but  in  one  of  his  eye-sockets  there 
was  nothing  but  a  clot  of  blood,  and  the  eye 
itself  was  hanging  on  his  temple  at  the  end  of 
a  white  tendon. 

"Poor  old  chap!"  said  the  gardener. 

He  leaned  over  the  corpse  with  its  ghastly, 
one-eyed  face  staring  at  the  sky,  and  reverently 


274  MY  -75 

covered  it  with  the  silver-badged  cap  which  had 

fallen  near  the  dead  man's  side. 

Behind  one  of  the  blue-slated  roofs,  which 
was  still  intact,  lively  flames  were  now  break- 
ing out  but  were  immediately  stifled  by  the 
clouds  of  smoke.  A  magnificent  cone-shaped 
fir-tree,  of  funereal  aspect,  mounted  guard  over 
the  fire  like  a  solitary  sentry. 

We  approached  the  building.  Near  the  wall 
of  the  yard  were  lying  two  gunners  and  a  couple 
of  horses.  They  had  just  been  killed,  and  the 
blood  on  the  ground  was  still  red.  I  recognised 
one  of  the  men  as  the  orderly  of  one  of  our 
officers.  The  other  had  fallen  face  downwards, 
his  arms  crossed  under  him. 

A  shell  had  bored  a  great  hole  in  the  yard. 
Three  ducks,  despite  the  heat  of  the  flames, 
were  dabbling  about  in  a  little  green  pond  near 
a  square-shaped  dunghill.  Another,  the  head 
of  which  had  been  cut  off  by  a  shell  splinter, 
was  lying  on  its  side  at  the  edge  of  the  water. 

Against  the  background  formed  by  the  great 
dark  curtain  of  smoke,  which  from  where  we 
were  standing  hid  half  the  sky,  the  skeleton 
of  a  barn  stood  out  like  a  fascinating  frame- 
work of  molten  metal.  Long  flames  darted 
out  from  the  doorway  and  licked  a  plough  and 
a  harrow  which  had  been  abandoned  there. 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  275 
Above  the  hay-shoot  a  pulley-wheel  for  hoist- 
ing fodder,  mounted  in  a  recess  in  the  front  of 
the  building,  was  red-hot.  The  roar  of  the 
guns  was  no  longer  audible,  being  drowned  by 
the  crackling  of  the  fire  and  the  sharp  hiss  of 
the  sparks  as  they  fell  in  the  pond.  One  of  the 
ducks,  stung  by  a  glowing  splinter,  was  shaking 
her  feathers. 

"We're  none  too  soon,"  said  the  gardener. 
"The  mutton  will  be  half  cooked  already." 

The  sheepfold  was  only  separated  from  the 
shed,  which  was  now  alight,  by  a  bake-house, 
and  was  already  full  of  smoke,  through  which 
the  woolly  backs  of  the  animals  loomed  like 
even  denser  clouds.  The  door  was  open,  but 
the  stupid  beasts  had  not  fled,  and  had  crowded 
together  against  the  end  wall  under  the  window 
communicating  with  the  bakehouse,  through 
which  came  the  smoke  which  was  gradually  as- 
phyxiating them.  Huddling  together  they 
pushed  forward  as  though  trying  to  break  down 
the  wail  with  their  foreheads. 

"Come  on,"  said  the  gardener.  "You, 
Lintier,  stand  there  ...  at  the  door.  That's 
how  we'll  work  it.  We'll  both  of  us  rush  in 
and  each  pull  out  one  of  them,  and  you  put 
a  bullet  through  them  as  they  come  out. 
Understand?" 

"All  right!" 


276  MY  -75 

I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  shadowy  forms  of  the 
two  men  dodging  about  in  the  smoke.  Then  I 
heard  the  scraping  of  hard  hoofs  on  the  ground 
and  one  of  the  gunners  reappeared  grasping 
with  both  hands  the  tail  of  a  fat  sheep  which 
he  pulled  out  backwards.  I  killed  the  animal 
on  the  threshold,  and  immediately  afterwards 
a  second.  The  gardener  went  in  again  to  fetch 
a  third. 

I  replaced  my  revolver  in  the  holster,  and 
each  of  us  hoisted  a  sheep  on  to  our  shoulders. 
They  encircled  our  necks  like  heavy  furs,  which 
we  kept  in  place  by  grasping  the  pointed  feet 
bunched  together  in  front  two  by  two.  From 
their  heads,  hanging  down  behind,  blood 
dripped  down  our  backs.  We  started  off  across 
the  beet  field. 

Suddenly  the  gardener  cried  out: 

"Listen!" 

We  stopped. 

"Down!" 

"We're  seen!" 

We  heard  the  scream  of  heavy  shell  ap- 
proaching, and  at  once  threw  ourselves  flat  on 
the  ground  behind  the  sheep,  which  formed  a 
sort  of  rampart.  Down  came  the  shells,  be- 
tween us  and  the  farm.  We  jumped  up,  and, 
in  spite  of  our  heavy  burdens,  ran  till  we  were 
out  of  the  line  of  fire.  We  passed  the  dead 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     277 

gendarmes  and  did  not  stop  until  we  had 
reached  a  row  of  poplars  which  hid  us  from 
view.  Three  projectiles  swooped  down  on  the 
spot  we  had  just  left. 

Winding  our  way  through  the  copses  and 
hollows  of  the  plateau  we  regained  the  park  in 
safety. 

I  resumed  my  seat  on  a  bundle  of  wood  near 
the  fire,  while  a  gunner,  who  was  a  butcher  by 
trade,  methodically  cut  up  one  of  the  sheep 
strung  up  by  the  foot  to  the  store  wagon. 

As  I  led  the  horses  down  to  drink  at  the 
tanks  I  took  a  short  cut  across  the  fields  in  the 
hope  of  finding  some  potatoes,  beetroot,  or 
perhaps  some  onions.  We  were  specially  in 
need  of  onions,  for  some  of  our  food  was  most 
insipid  and  we  knew  of  no  other  flavouring. 

I  found  neither  onions  nor  potatoes,  but,  on 
the  other  side  of  a  knoll,  I  saw  some  foot- 
soldiers  stretched  out  on  the  loose  sheaves  of 
wheat.  Their  red  breeches  were  visible  a  long 
way  off.  Evidently  some  of  those  who  had 
fallen  in  the  engagements  of  the  I2th. 

In  a  hollow  a  little  farther  on  I  also  came 
upon  some  German  corpses.  Thirteen  French- 
men and  seventeen  Germans  had  fallen  there, 
almost  side  by  side.  And  yet  the  Frenchmen 
seemed  more  numerous.  Red  patches  on  the 
yellow  of  the  stubble-field,  they  caught  the 


278  MY  -75 

eye,     whereas     the     Germans     were     hardly 

noticeable. 

The  arms  and  packs  of  the  dead  men  had 
been  taken  away,  and  coats,  tunics,  and  shirts 
had  been  unbuttoned  so  that  the  medals  could 
be  unpinned.  Their  necks,  bared  chests,  and 
eyelids  had  already  turned  a  greenish-grey.  A 
little  sergeant,  who  had  fallen  backwards  on 
to  some  sheaves  which  now  pillowed  his  head, 
still  held  his  right  arm  starkly  in  the  air.  The 
stiffened  fingers  of  his  outstretched  hand  seemed 
clasped  in  a  grip  of  agony.  On  his  sleeve  the 
gold  bar  shone  in  the  sun. 

As  I  passed  on,  some  swallows,  whose  low 
flight  announced  rain,  skimmed  over  the  knoll, 
their  pointed  wings  lightly  touching  the  dead 
men. 

Thursday,  September  17 

Our  line  of  wagons  still  remains  in  the  same 
hollow,  nor  has  the  battery  changed  position. 
Although  during  the  last  two  days  it  has  fired 
more  than  five  hundred  shells  the  enemy  has 
not  been  able  to  discover  its  whereabouts. 

Fighting  continued,  growing  ever  more  vio- 
lent in  character,  near  Tracy-le-Mont,  Tracy- 
le-Val,  Carlepont  in  front  of  us,  Compiegne  on 
the  west,  and  on  the  east,  parallel  to  the  Aisne, 
towards  Soissons. 

We  neither  advanced  nor  retired,  and  that 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  279 
was  all  we  knew  of  the  engagement.  We  have 
begun  to  fall  into  regular  habits  here;  soup  is 
served  and  the  horses  are  watered  at  the  same 
hour  every  day. 

On  my  way  to  the  water-tanks  this  morning 
I  saw  an  odd-looking  priest.  Sitting  astride 
his  horse  in  the  middle  of  the  road  he  was  talk- 
ing to  a  surrounding  group  of  gunners  and  foot- 
soldiers.  He  was  booted  and  spurred,  and  a 
long  waterproof  cape,  fastened  under  his  chin, 
floated  down  over  the  crupper  of  his  horse.  A 
big  wooden  cross  hung  from  his  neck  on  to 
the  varnished  strap  of  his  revolver-holster,  and 
into  his  wide  black  belt  he  had  stuck  a  German 
bayonet. 

Standing  in  the  stirrups  he  looked  like  some 
strange  militant  monk  as  he  stroked  the  neck 
of  his  horse. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "he's  a  nice  beast.  He  be- 
longed to  a  Uhlan  whom  I  found  after  the 
battle  last  week,  near  Nanteuil,  where  I  was 
going  to  hear  confessions.  He  had  been  aban- 
doned, so  I  took  him.  It  is  much  better  than 
walking." 

And  he  added: 

"He  saved  my  life  yesterday.  ...  I  was 
going  to  the  outposts  where  there  had  been 
some  fighting  and  where  I  had  heard  that  I  was 
wanted.  I  was  quite  alone,  and  suddenly  I 


280  MY  -75 

met  a  patrol  of  Uhlans.  They  fired  at  me,  but 
missed.  I  was  angry  at  not  being  able  to  go 
where  I  wanted,  and  as  I  wheeled  round  I  let 
them  have  a  revolver  shot.  As  a  priest  I  ought 
not  to  have  done  that,  ought  I?  But  I  couldn't 
help  it.  I  saw  one  topple  over.  The  others, 
pursued  me,  but  my  horse  went  like  the  wind, 
and  after  a  time  they  gave  up  the  chase.  So 
I  turned  round  again  and  followed  them.  I 
found  the  man  I  had  shot.  He  didn't  under- 
stand a  word  of  French.  I  was  able  to  give 
him  absolution  before  he  died,  but  it  was  a  close 
shave  1" 

Night  was  falling  when  we  rejoined  the 
battery.  It  was  raining,  and  we  wondered 
whether  we  should  again  have  to  sleep  in  the 
mud. 

I  found  my  comrades  of  the  first  gun — 
Hutin,  Millon,  and  Deprez — covered  with  mire 
and  black  with  powder,  their  faces  gaunt  with 
weariness. 

"Hallo!" 

"Ah,  Lintier!"  said  Hutin.  "We've  had 
a  bad  time  of  it  to-day!  I  really  don't  know 
how  it  is  we  are  still  here  I  ...  I  don't  know. 
...  Ask  Millon.  .  .  ." 

Millon  nodded  his  head.  He  seemed  at  the 
end  of  his  strength. 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     281 

"Gratien  is  dead." 

"Oh!" 

"Killed  as  he  was  mounting  his  horse  .  .  . 
a  small  splinter  in  the  spine.  He  didn't 
move.  ...  A  shell  came  right  through  the 
shield  of  the  third  gun  without  bursting.  .  .  . 
And  another  fell  not  two  yards  off  our 
trench!" 

"Ah!  That  one  did  burst.  We  were 
badly  shaken.  .  .  .  My  hair  and  beard  were 
singed." 

"No  one  wounded?" 

"No  one  in  the  battery,  except  Gratien,  who 
was  killed.  .  .  .  Yes,  though !  Pelletier  got 
his  forehead  grazed  by  a  splinter.  Come  and 
have  a  look  at  the  ammunition  wagon — it's 
like  a  nutmeg-grater.  It  began  to  smoke  at 
one  time.  Suppose  it  had  blown  up !  ... 

It  was  full  .  .  .  thirty-six  high-explosive  shells ! 

>» 

%  •  . 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  so  we  lit  the  hurri- 
cane lamps.  Somebody  called  out: 

"Eleventh,  to  your  billets!" 

"Right!" 

"First  gun  .  .  .  fifth  gun  .  .  ." 

"Fifth!" 

"To  your  billets,  eleventh!" 

We  followed  a  man  carrying  a  hurricane 
lamp,  and  found  that  we  had  to  share  our 


282  MY  -75 

billets  with  some  foot-soldiers  from  the  south 

whose  accent,  so  to  speak,  smelt  of  garlic. 

The  men  of  the  firing  battery  let  themselves 
fall  in  the  straw  like  foundered  horses,  and, 
after  having  made  sure  of  a  warm  place,  I 
sallied  out  with  a  couple  of  comrades  of  the 
first  line  in  order  to  find  something  to  eat  and 
drink. 

The  narrow,  badly  paved  streets  were  alive 
with  the  shadowy  forms  of  men  jostling  each 
other,  the  indistinct  coming  and  going  of  horse- 
men and  wagons,  the  noise  of  many  feet 
plodding  through  the  mud,  and  the  confused 
sound  of  voices  and  respiration. 

A  little  cafe,  near  which  the  pavement  had 
been  broken  up  by  a  shell  in  the  afternoon,  was 
crowded  with  foot-soldiers,  Army  Supply 
Corps  men,  and  Zouaves. 

The  bottles,  jugs,  and  glasses  standing  on 
the  counter  half  hid  the  shadeless  brass  lamp 
with  which  the  place  was  lit,  and  threw  huge, 
uncouth  shadows  across  the  narrow,  smoke- 
filled  room  on  to  the  walls. 

There  was  a  babble  of  voices  and  laughter. 
Every  one  was  drinking,  and  the  proprietor 
still  had  some  liqueurs  and  rum  left.  The  tired- 
out  soldiers  soon  became  drunk  with  alcohol, 
tobacco,  and  tales  of  the  war. 

This   diminutive   cafe,    where   there   was   a 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  283 
little  light,  a  little  warmth,  and  a  whole  world 
of  oblivion,  was  a  veritable  haven  in  the 
immense  weariness  of  the  night,  among  the 
thousands  of  soldiers  stretched  out  every- 
where round  us,  in  the  open  or  in  barns, 
sleeping  as  soundly  as  the  dead  men 
just  laid  low  in  the  fields  by  the  shrapnel 
bullets. 

We  succeeded  in  finding  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. Never  had  the  sparkle  of  wine  seemed 
to  me  so  delicious. 

Nobody  was  asleep  when  we  returned  to  our 
billets.  Despite  the  complaints  of  the  gunners 
the  southern  infantrymen  went  on  talking, 
swearing,  and  leaving  the  door  open.  .  .  . 

"Aren't  you  chaps  ever  going  to  go  to 
sleep?"  thundered  a  gunner  from  the  depths 
of  the  darkness. 

"Hold  your  jaw!" 

"Here!  shut  the  door,  can't  you?" 

Men  continually  trod  on  our  feet  and  chests 
and  let  their  rifles  and  packs  fall  on  us.  The 
air  was  full  of  grumbling  and  vituperation. 
It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  Moratin  lost  his 
temper : 

"Now  are  you  ever  going  to  shut  up, 
you—  -!  If  you  don't,  I'll  go  and  fetch  the 
Major!" 

A  broadside  of  oaths  rose  from  the  straw. 


284  MY  .75 

The  gunners  replied.    Dozing  men,  waking  up, 

yelled : 

"Shut  your  mouths!  Shut  'em,  do  you 
hear?" 

Friday,  September  1 8 

Day  was  just  breaking  as  we  moved  slowly 
along  the  roads  across  the  plain,  our  horses 
sinking  up  to  the  fetlocks  in  clayey  mud. 

We  met  large  parties  of  wounded — Tiraill- 
eurs, Zouaves,  and,  above  all,  soldiers  of  the 
line.  They  overflowed  the  road  on  either  side 
as  they-  plodded  on  with  heavy  steps  which 
dragged  in  the  gutters  and  puddles. 

The  dawn  was  misty.  It  was  half-past  four, 
but  we  could  not  see  the  faces  of  the  wounded 
until  they  were  actually  passing  our  carriage, 
when  we  had  a  vision  of  white  bandages  and  of 
others  crimson-red.  But  when  the  troops  had 
gone  by  in  the  vague,  uncertain  light,  we  could 
only  perceive  a  slowly  rolling  sea  of  heads  and 
shoulders. 

In  the  eyes  of  some  of  my  comrades  who 
yesterday  were  so  close  to  death  and  who  to- 
day were  still  stiff,  tired,  and  dejected,  I  caught 
sight  of  looks  of  envy.  They  were  aware  of  the 
orders  which  had  arrived  during  the  nighf, 
namely,  that  we  were  to  return  to  our  positions 
of  yesterday. 

They  were  not  afraid,  but  the  familiarity 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  285 
with  danger,  which  had  made  them  brave, 
had  in  no  sense  impaired  their  love  of  life— • 
the  life  which  they  felt  bubbling  in  their  veins 
and  which,  in  a  few  moments  perhaps,  might 
be  spent,  with  all  their  red  blood,  on  the  field 
of  sugar-beets.  They  were  thinking  of  those 
who  had  died  yesterday,  of  Corporal  Gratien, 
of  Captain  Legoff — >an  officer  adored  by  his 
men — of  the  six  members  of  the  6th  Battery 
who  were  reduced  to  a  shapeless,  bleeding  pulp 
at  the  bottom  of  their  trench. 

It  is  at  moments  like  these,  at  once  melan- 
choly and  solemn,  when  the  regular  creaking 
and  jolting  of  the  wagons  and  the  measured 
hoof-beats  of  the  horses  numb  the  senses  and 
make  one  drowsy,  that  one's  thoughts  turn 
most  bitterly  to  the  future  of  bygone  dreams, 
to  all  promised  joys  and  pleasures,  to  all  the 
happiness  for  which  the  past  has  paved  the 
way  and  which  might  possibly  have  been 
realised  without  difficulty.  .  .  . 

Dawn — I  do  not  know  why — is  always  a  sad 
hour.  And  on  the  mornings  of  battle  this 
inherent  sadness  is  rendered  more  poignant 
by  the  dread  of  the  terrible  and  perhaps  final 
experiences  which  the  day  just  born  may  hold 
in  store.  Regrets  and  fears  become  linked  in  a 
vicious  circle  of  thought  from  which  there  is  no 
escape. 


286  MY  -75 

One's  only  desire  is  to  live — to  return  alive 
in  the  evening — but  to  conquer  first,  to  pre- 
vent the  enemy  from  reaching  our  homes, 
above  all  to  protect  the  weak  and  loved  ones 
behind  us,  in  France,  whose  lives  are  even  more 
precious  to  us  than  our  own.  To  conquer! 
And  still  live  to-night! 


The  battery  again  took  up  position  near 
the  holocaust  of  the  farm,  which  was  still 
burning,  and  the  wagons  returned  to  their 
gully. 

My  wrist  was  giving  me  considerable  pain, 
and  the  medical  officer  wanted  to  send  me 
behind  the  lines  on  sick-leave,  but  I  preferred 
to  rest  with  the  wagons  a  few  days  longer  and 
then  return  to  my  gun. 

The  rain  began  to  fall  in  torrents.  On  the 
edge  of  a  lucerne-field  one  of  our  horses,  which 
we  had  to  abandon  yesterday,  was  rolling  in 
its  death  agony.  The  straw  we  had  brought 
with  us,  hashed  up  by  the  wheels  of  the 
vehicles  and  by  the  hoofs  of  the  horses,  and 
mingled  with  the  water  and  mud  which  had 
collected  in  the  clayey  hollow,  formed  a  kind 
of  noisome  quicksand  into  which  we  sank 
ankle-deep. 

The   men    did   not    open   their   lips    except 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  287 
to  swear  or  complain.  No  more  dead  wood 
was  to  be  found  in  the  copses;  all  had  been 
consumed  yesterday  and  the  day  before.  We 
could  not  light  a  fire.  Some  passing  gunners 
told  us  that  there  were  still  some  faggots  in  a 
farm  near  the  water-tanks,  and  we  at  once 
hurried  thither.  On  the  plain  the  corpses  were 
no  longer  lying  among  the  loose  sheaves.  On 
one  side  of  the  Tracy  road,  which  was  now 
nothing  more  than  a  swamp,  the  earth  had 
been  dug  up  in  the  middle  of  the  field  of  sugar- 
beets  and  two  crosses  roughly  fashioned  out 
of  ^planks  marked  the  grave. 

The  farm  to  which  we  had  come  in  our  quest 
for  wood  had  been  arranged  as  a  first-aid  post. 
The  buildings  surrounded  a  yard,  in  the  centre 
of  which,  near  the  dung-heap,  were  ranged  up 
several  green-tilted  carts  marked  with  the  red 
cross.  In  one  corner  a  heap  of  cotton-wool  and 
some  blood-stained  bandages  and  compresses 
were  slowly  burning. 

In  the  stable  and  cow-sheds  one  could  see, 
through  the  half-open  doors,  the  recumbent 
forms  of  sick  and  wounded  lined  up  on  the 
straw  underneath  the  empty  troughs  and  man- 
gers. Some  hospital  orderlies  in  canvas  cloth- 
ing were  busy  making  soup.  A  medical  officer 
stalked  stiffly  by  in  his  white  smock.  Not  a  cry 
of  pain  was  to  be  heard. 


288  MY  -75 

In  the  wood-shed  some  sick  men — nine  or  ten 
pale  and  gaunt  foot-soldiers — were  lying  on 
trusses  of  hay  which  they  had  not  even  untied. 
One  man,  whom  we  could  not  see  owing  to  the 
darkness,  was  breathing  with  a  noise  like  an 
engine. 

The  firing  was  less  violent  than  yesterday. 
An  aviation  park  had  been  formed  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  from  our  hollow,  behind  the  farm- 
houses in  which  the  Staff  had  taken  up  its  quar- 
ters for  the  day.  This  proximity  rendered  our 
position  increasingly  unsafe.  The  enemy's 
Howitzers  tried  to  reach  the  aeroplanes  stand- 
ing on  the  field,  and  though  they  seemed  to  be 
firing  at  haphazard,  shells  continually  fell  here 
and  there  on  the  outskirts  of  our  park. 

The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close  without 
giving  any  indication  as  to  the  issue  of  the 
battle,  which  had  already  been  in  progress 
five  days. 

But  towards  evening  a  long  convoy  of 
Moroccan  Carabas  passed  on  the  road  near-by, 
marching  southwards  towards  the  Aisne.  They 
were  followed  by  some  infantry.  What  could 
be  the  meaning  of  it?  We  could  not  help  feel- 
ing uneasy. 

The  dusk  deepened  into  darkness  and  the 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  289 
long  golden  beams  of  the  searchlights  began 
to  sweep  the  plain.  Under  the  hard,  unyield- 
ing light  the  smallest  objects — a  hayrick,  a  shed 
— cast  huge  inky  shadows  on  the  field. 

Next,  some  artillery  passed  by,  also  heading 
towards  the  Aisne.  We  could  not  see  the 
carriages,  but  recognised  them  by  the  familiar 
creaking  and  rattling.  Occasionally  they  halted 
a  moment  or  two,  and  then  another  sound  be- 
came audible — a  sound  like  a  far-off  torrent — 
caused  by  infantry  on  the  march  on  some  other 
road  across  the  plain. 

It  started  to  rain  again. 

We  rejoined  our  batteries  at  the  water- 
tanks.  A  ceaseless  tide  of  men  brushed  by  our 
carriages,  their  shadowy  figures  rising  and  fall- 
ing as  they  passed  in  the  darkness. 

"What  regiment  is  that?"  I  asked.  No  one 
answered. 

"What  regiment  is  that?" 

Apparently  a  regiment  of  dumb  men.  They 
continued  to  march  by  in  the  gloom  without 
giving  any  reply. 

"What  regiment  is  that  passing?  Can't 
you  speak  French?" 

"Hundred  and  third." 

"Where  are  you  going  to?" 

"We  don't  know." 

"Where  are  you  going  to?"  I  repeated. 


290  MY  '75 

"We  don't  know,"  came  the  answer  again. 

On  the  fields  of  sugar-beets  flanking  the 
road  we  could  see  masses  of  motionless  artil- 
lery. Was  the  Army  Corps  retiring?  And  yet 
we  had  not  been  outflanked  this  time.  ...  I 
was  suddenly  seized  with  anxiety. 

It  began  to  rain  harder.  Under  the  moving 
ray  of  a  searchlight  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
long  road  black  with  men  and  horses. 

My  carriage  had  ranged  up  close  to  those  of 
the  first  gun. 

"Hutin!" 

"Here!     Yes?    Hallo,  it's  you!" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  are  we  retiring?" 

"No." 

"What?  The  whole  division  is  falling 
back!  .  .  ." 

"We're  being  replaced." 

"Think  so?" 

"Yes.  I've  seen  some  gunners  of  the  Corps 
which  is  replacing  us." 

"In  that  case  we  shall  get  some  rest." 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  I've  heard  that  they 
mean  to  make  a  turning  movement  over  by  the 
forest  of  Compiegne  and  the  forest  of  Laigle 
with  the  Moroccan  Division." 

Rain  .  .  .  darkness  .  .  .  smoking  prohibited. 
The  surrounding  gloom  was  alive  with  distant 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  291 
footfalls,  the  muffled  rumble  of  wheels,  jingle 
of  arms,  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  men  and 
animals. 

Behind  the  infantry  regiments  of  the  divi- 
sion we  began  a  slow  march  interrupted  by 
the  halts  of  the  foot-soldiers  ahead  and  by  other 
unknown  impediments. 

About  midnight  we  crossed  the  Aisne.  Rain 
was  still  falling.  Two  hurricane  lamps  marked 
the  entrance  of  the  pontoon  bridge  constructed 
by  the  Engineers.  The  planking  gave  under 
the  weight  of  the  column  and  one  heard  the 
water  plashing  against  the  metal  bottoms  of  the 
boats. 

The  road  was  now  clear,  and  the  batteries 
on  ahead  broke  into  a  trot.  A  horse  which 
had  become  entangled  in  the  traces  stopped 
our  wagons  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  before 
we  were  able  to  catch  up  to  the  head  of  the 
column  a  cross-roads  suddenly  brought  us  once 
more  to  a  halt.  In  the  dense  darkness  there 
was  nothing  to  indicate  which  road  the  leading 
vehicles  had  taken.,  We  listened.  ...  A  dis- 
tant rumble  seemed  to  come  from  the  right, 
and  we  wheeled  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 
The  drivers  urged  their  horses  forward.  We 
strained  our  eyes  in  an  attempt  to  pierce  the 
gloom,  always  hoping  to  see  the  bulky  form 
of  an  ammunition  wagon  or  gun  loom  out  of  the 


292  MY  -75 

darkness  ahead.  But  we  hoped  in  vain.  The 
road  became  narrower,  and  at  every  moment 
we  risked  falling  into  the  ditch.  Finally  we 
had  to  confess  to  ourselves  that  we  had  lost 
our  way. 

The  Lieutenant  gave  the  word  to  halt.  We 
prepared  to  wait  for  daybreak  before  continu- 
ing our  march.  The  downpour  redoubled  in 
violence,  and  it  was  impossible  to  find  shelter. 
The  gunners  huddled  together  on  the  limber- 
boxes  and  became  motionless,  while  the  drivers 
stamped  up  and  down  in  the  mud  at  the  heads 
of  their  teams. 

Overcome  by  fatigue  I  had  begun  to  get 
drowsy  in  spite  of  the  cold  and  the  wetness 
of  my  clothes,  which  stuck  to  my  skin  like 
icy  poultices  and  seemed  to  suck  all  the  warmth 
from  my  body.  Suddenly  I  became  aware  of 
footsteps  splashing  in  the  gutters  by  the  side 
of  the  road.  Men  were  passing  by  the  wagon. 
I  thought  that  possibly  somebody  had  dis- 
covered a  barn  and  was  leading  them  to  it.  I 
followed. 

Sure  enough,  after  a  few  minutes'  walk  we 
came  to  a  house,  the  black  bulk  of  which  rose 
up  suddenly  before  me,  darker  than  the  sur- 
rounding darkness. 

My  foot  knocked  against  a  ladder.  Perhaps 
k  led  to  a  window?  I  clambered  up  and 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  293 
found  myself  in  a  loft  of  which  the  flooring 
was  rotten  and  gave  way  under  my  tread.  I 
clutched  the  low  framework  of  the  roof  and 
advanced  cautiously.  Some  one  was  already 
asleep  there;  I  heard  his  breathing.  Stretch- 
ing myself  carefully  athwart  the  beams  and 
pillowing  my  head  on  a  bundle  of  wood,  I  pre- 
pared to  go  to  sleep.  It  was  almost  hot  in  the 
loft 

Saturday,  September  19 

We  started  off  again  at  dawn  in  a  drizzling 
rain.  The  road,  studded  at  intervals  with  the 
bodies  of  dead  horses,  wound  through  inter- 
minable woods  of  tall  beeches  from  which  the 
rain  dripped  heavily.  Endless  enfilades  of 
swamped  and  deserted  trenches  stretched 
away  on  either  side  and  were  finally  lost  in  the 
undergrowth.  Tall,  heavy  trees  had  been 
felled  and  laid  athwart  the  road,  which  had 
sunk  beneath  their  weight.  And  when  they 
had  been  dragged  into  the  ditches  in  order  tc> 
leave  the  way  clear  for  the  troops,  their  stout 
branches  had  scored  deep  scratches  in  the  road, 
which  had  soon  been  converted  into  quagmires 
by  the  rain. 

We  passed  through  Pierrefonds,  where, 
beneath  the  leaden  sky,  the  magnificent  out- 
lines of  the  chateau  rose  up  amid  the  verdure 
darkened  by  the  rain,  and  then  entered  the 


294  MY  -75 

forest  of  Compiegne,  with  its  lofty  beeches 
standing  in  colonnades,  below  which  lay  long 
lines  of  swamped  trenches  zigzagging  between 
the  trees,  with  here  and  there  a  primitive  hut 
made  of  branches  and  ferns,  and  more  and  more 
dead  horses. 

The  sun,  breaking  out  between  two  clouds 
and  piercing  the  leaves,  threw  emerald-green 
lights  on  the  wet  moss.  Among  the  dark  tones 
the  bright  trunks  of  the  birches  flashed  inter- 
mittently. 

Compiegne !  The  town,  occupied  by  the  en- 
emy for  a  few  days  only,  did  not  appear  to  have 
suffered  very  much.  Gun-fire  was  audible  from 
far  off,  to  the  north-east. 

We  crossed  the  Oise  and  rejoined  our  bat- 
teries at  Venette,  an  outlying  suburb. 

In  the  large  hall  of  a  farm  to  which  I  had 
gone  in  search  of  provisions  the  farmer's  wife, 
a  matron  of  over  fifty  summers,  was  depicting 
the  horrors  of  the  German  occupation  to  four 
gunners. 

She  broke  off  as  I  came  in. 

"Some  milk  and  eggs?  You  want  to  buy 
them?  No!  I  won't  sell  them,  but  I'll  give 
you  them.  .  .  .  Please  wait  a  moment." 

And  she  resumed  her  story. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  it  was  just  like  that 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  295 
...  in  front  of  their  father.  They  trussed 
him  up  with  his  back  to  the  wardrobe  so  that 
he  couldn't  help  seeing  everything.  Five  or  six 
of  them  there  were,  and  one  officer.  They 
violated  both  girls — only  eighteen  and  twenty, 
and  such  nice,  honest  girls,  too!  .  .  .  Yes — 
all  six  of  them,  one  after  the  other!  The 
poor  things  screamed  all  the  time !  .  .  .  Oh, 

those    aren't   men!  .  .  .  They're   just  beasts! 
»> 

And  lowering  her  voice  a  little,  but  without 
embarrassment,  she  continued: 

"More  than  one  woman  went  through  the 
same  thing.  I  did  .  .  .  yes!  .  .  .  And  yet 
I'm  no  young  girl.  .  .  .  I've  a  son  who  is  a 
soldier  like  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  God,  it's  awful! 
...  It  happened  one  evening,  at  about  this 
time  .  .  .  four  of  them  had  arrived  here  to 
sleep.  How  was  I  to  defend  myself?  .  .  . 
The  best  thing  was  to  say  nothing.  There 
have  been  women  who  have  tried  to  defend 
themselves  and  who  have  been  simply  ripped 
up  ...  that's  all !  My  husband  was  out,  get- 
ting in  their  things.  I  thought  to  myself,  'If  he 
comes  in,  what  will  happen?  .  .  .  He'll  kill 
some  of  them.  .  .  .' ' 

"Yes,  I  would,  too!  I'd  have  killed  them!" 
interrupted  a  voice  from  the  darkness  at  the 
end  of  the  room. 


296  MY  -75 

I  had  not  seen  the  man  as  he  sat  smoking 
his  pipe  in  a  corner  of  the  hearth. 

His  wife  turned  towards  him. 

"Poor  old  dear!  You'd  perhaps  have  killed 
one  of  them,  but  the  others  would  have  killed 
both  of  us.  ...  Besides,  as  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned— well — I  know  I'm  too  old!  .  .  . 
That's  what  my  husband  said — afterwards.  .  .  . 
That  won't  lead  to  any  consequences !" 

Sunday,  September  20 

A  long  march  in  a  stinging  hail-storm,  first 
towards  the  west  and  then  northwards.  We 
are  evidently  attempting  a  turning  movement 
against  the  German  right  wing. 

Monday,  September  21 

The  day  broke  with  the  calm  brightness  of 
early  autumn.  We  continued  our  enveloping 
movement. 

Towards  midday  a  heavy  French  battery 
in  position  near  the  road  suddenly  began  to 
fire.  Our  officers  went  off  at  a  gallop  to  recon- 
noitre. We  thought  we  were  going  into 
action,  but  were  finally  told  that  we  should 
not  be  wanted  to-day  and  were  sent  off  to 
camp  in  a  park  near  Ribecourt.  We  ranged 
up  the  guns  on  a  lawn  flanked  by  a  mag- 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     297 

nificent  wood  of  beech-trees  bordered  by  rho- 
dodendrons. 

On  one  side  of  us  lay  an  unruffled  sheet  of 
water,  reddening  under  the  brilliant  sunset,  and, 
on  the  other,  among  the  clumps  of  trees  be- 
neath which  lay  flower-beds  set  off  by  blood-red 
sage,  rose  a  fine  modern  chateau.  Under  the 
rich  foliage  a  little  rustic  bridge  spanning  the 
river  gave  a  curiously  Venetian  effect. 

The  evening  was  sultry,  but  nevertheless  we 
made  our  bivouac  fires  under  the  chestnut- 
trees  flanking  the  river.  In  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  which  had  now  fallen,  the  pond  looked 
like  an  enormous  blot  of  ink.  We  were 
almost  blinded  by  the  yellow  flare  of  our  fires 
and  could  no  longer  distinguish  the  river 
banks,  thus  risking  at  every  step  a  fall  into 
the  water. 

Tuesday,  September  22 

We  passed  the  night  on  some  straw  in  the 
outbuildings. 

My  wrist  is  now  healed,  and  I  am  going  to 
return  to  my  post  with  the  first  gun. 

Under  the  morning  sun  the  pond  shone  like 
a  silver  mirror,  and  the  little  Venetian  bridge 
struck  a  bright  note  among  the  dark  tones  of 
the  trees,  while  the  water  flowing  underneath, 
over  the  slime  and  rotten  leaves,  was  jet-black. 


298  MY  -75 

The  chateau  stood  out  starkly  against  the  pale 
blue  sky,  and  the  yellow  gravel  of  the  walks 
and  the  vermilion  sage  afforded  a  bright  con- 
trast to  the  uniform  green  of  the  lawns. 

The  battery  moved  on.  The  crackling  of  rifle 
and  machine-gun  fire  accompanied  the  roar  of 
the  artillery.  The  enemy  was  evidently  making 
a  stand  against  our  enveloping  movement, 
which  it  was  doubtless  the  intention  of  the 
French  commanders  to  accentuate.  We  resumed 
our  march  towards  the  north,  heading  for  Roye. 
The  success  of  the  manoeuvre  depended  on  num- 
bers, and  I  wondered  whether  we  had  sufficient 
men  available. 

In  a  field  by  the  wayside  some  Senegalese 
Tirailleurs,  fine-looking,  ebony-coloured  men 
dressed  in  navy  blue  uniforms,  were  making 
coffee  with  the  simple  gestures  and  admirable 
attitudes  of  people  untrammelled  by  civilisa- 
tion. 

***** 

The  officers  had  gone  off  to  reconnoitre.  We 
halted  at  the  foot  of  a  long  slope  in  the  middle 
of  some  large  beet  fields  forming  a  kind  of 
basin  near  the  village  of  Fresnieres,  where 
heavy  shells  were  falling. 

The  line  of  fire,  forming  an  angle  towards 
Compiegne,  stretched  from  north  to  south. 
We  could  not  be  more  than  a  mile  or  two,  as 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE     299 

the  crow  flies,  from  the  plains  we  had 
been  occupying  during  the  past  few  days 
on  the  banks  of  the  Aisne,  near  Tracy-le- 
Mont. 

I  do  not  know  what  echo  or  confusion  of 
sound  prevented  us  from  locating  the  position 
of  the  battle  exactly.  Fighting  was  going  on 
in  the  direction  of  Ribecourt  and  Lassigny,  but 
the  heavy  battery  which  had  been  bombarding 
Fresnieres  was  now  silent.  Behind  the  woods 
columns  of  black  smoke  were  curling  upwards. 
Fires  or  shells  bursting?  It  was  impossible  to 
tell. 

But  our  chief  anxiety  was  the  northern 
horizon,  which  was  masked  by  a  line  of  pop- 
lars, and  from  which  occasional  and  unsustained 
rifle-fire  revealed  the  presence  of  the  enemy. 
The  Germans  might  reply  to  our  enveloping 
movement  by  trying  to  execute  a  similar 
manoeuvre. 

On  the  edge  of  the  woods  to  the  north-east 
large  numbers  of  troops  could  be  seen  in  move- 
ment. A  long  black  column  of  artillery  was 
winding  its  way  across  country.  The  hoof- 
beats  of  a  far-off  squadron,  trotting,  sounded 
like  the  reptation  of  some  huge  serpent.  The 
whole  countryside  was  alive.  From  where  we 
stood  one  would  have  said  that  it  was  only 
the  leaves  of  the  beets  moving  in  the  wind,  but 


300  MY  -75 

in  reality  it  was  infantry  deploying  in  skirmish- 
ing order. 

We  took  up  position  in  a  field.  The  ground 
under  my  gun  was  extremely  soft,  and  it  seemed 
a  foregone  conclusion  that  the  carriage  would 
continue  to  recoil  with  the  result  that  a  per- 
petual error  in  laying  would  retard  our  rapid- 
ity of  fire.  The  second  gun  was  no  better  placed 
than  ours,  but  the  other  section,  in  position  on 
a  stubble-field,  was  on  much  firmer  ground. 
The  battery  would  thus  lose  all  cohesion,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it.  It  was  impossible  to 
use  the  position  assigned  to  us  to  better  ad- 
vantage. 

In  front  of  us,  some  77  mm.  guns  were 
sweeping  the  fields,  but  these  did  not  cause  us 
much  anxiety.  In  relation  to  the  position  which, 
judging  from  their  fire,  they  were  occupying 
somewhere  to  the  north-east,  we  were  well  cov- 
ered. But,  beyond  Lassigny,  standing  out  amid 
the  verdure,  rose  a  line  of  lofty,  wooded  hills 
which  commanded  the  whole  of  the  plain  and 
from  the  summit  of  which  our  battery  was  cer- 
tainly visible.  We  could  not  take  our  eyes  off 
their  threatening  crests.  What  lay  hidden  in 
their  gloomy  forests? 

We  were  well  within  range  of  heavy  artillery 
should  the  enemy  install  a  battery  at  that 
point. 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    301 

"Come  on,"  said  Brejard,  "we  must  make 
a  hole  and  get  to  work  quickly." 

In  feverish  haste  we  dug  a  trench  behind  the 
ammunition  wagon.  Another  group  of  .75*8, 
occupying  a  position  parallel  to  ours,  opened 
fire  on  Lassigny. 

The  .77*8  now  increased  their  range,  and 
every  round  became  more  threatening. 

"To  your  guns  ...  by  the  right,  each  bat- 
tery!" commanded  the  Captain. 

"What  range?  We  haven't  heard  the 
range,"  shouted  Millon. 

"Eleven  hundred!" 

"How  much?" 

"Eleven  hundred!" 

"Oh,  they're  not  far  off!" 

"Sounds  bad,  that,"  growled  Hutin. 

The  gun  reared,  and  immediately  recoiled 
more  than  two  yards.  We  had  to  man  it  for- 
ward into  position,  but  the  spade  and  wheels 
had  sunk  so  deep  in  the  soil  that  try  as  we 
would  the  six  of  us  could  not  move  it.  Our 
shoulders  to  the  wheels,  struggling  and  sweat- 
ing, we  began  to  get  nervous  and  angry.  Finally 
we  had  to  call  to  the  detachment  of  the  second 
gun  to  come  and  help  us. 

Some  infantry  had  taken  up  position  in  front 
of  the  battery.  We  signalled  to  them  to  move 
to  the  left. 


302  MY  -75 

"They'll  get  cut  in  two,  the  idiots  1" 

"To  the  left!" 

"What  fools  1" 

"To  the  left!" 

The  Lieutenant,  his  lungs  exhausted,  waved 
his  long  arms. 

"Lord!    Aren't  they  stupid,  those  fellows!" 

We  shouted  in  chorus: 

"To  the  left  .  .  .  to  the  left!" 

At  last  they  moved  off,  and  we  could  fire. 

"Eight  hundred!" 

We  thought  we  had  not  heard  aright. 

"Eight  hundred!" 

So  the  enemy  was  there,  behind  the  crests, 
and  was  advancing.  .  .  . 

What  was  the  French  command  waiting  for? 
Why  did  they  not  throw  forward  the  troops 
which,  over  towards  Fresnieres,  were  swarming 
on  the  beet  fields? 

Moratin,  who  was  standing  on  the  refilling 
wagon,  cried  out: 

"Go  on,  let  'em  have  it  full !  That  shell  from 
the  first  gun  mowed  down  a  heap  of  them. 
There !  you  can  see  them,  the  brutes !  .  .  .  You 
can  see  them !  .  .  ." 

His  words  gave  us  strength  to  push  the  gun, 
the  wheels  of  which  kept  turning  backwards, 
forward  into  position  again. 

"Hutin!" 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    303 

"What?" 

"Did  you  hear?" 

"Hear  what?" 

"There  it  is  again." 

"Bullets  .  .  ." 

"Yes." 

"In  threes,  double  traverse !" 

The  Captain  had  climbed  into  an  apple-tree 
close  to  the  fourth  gun.  The  bullets,  brushing 
over  the  crest,  were  too  high  to  touch  us,  but 
they  continually  cut  down  leaves  round  the 
Captain.  We  begged  him  to  come  down.  For 
the  tenth  time  one  of  the  gunners  insisted : 

"You  mustn't  stay  there,  sir!" 

The  Major  interfered: 

"Come  down,  De  Brisoult!" 

But  the  Captain,  his  glasses  to  his  eyes,  con- 
tinued to  scan  the  northern  horizon  and  only 
answered  quietly: 

"But  I  can  see  very  well,  sir  ...  very  well. 
Nine  hundred!  .  .  ." 

"Nine  hundred!" 

"Nine    hundred!"     repeated    the     gunners. 

Our  infantry  had  doubtless  retaken  Las- 
signy.  German  shells  were  now  bursting 
over  the  town,  giving  off  clouds  of  yellow 
smoke. 

"One  thousand!" 

We  had  at  last  found  a  more  or  less  firm 


3°4  MY  -75 

position  for  our  gun,  and  our  fire  accelerated 
as  the  enemy  fell  back. 

"Eleven  hundred!" 

"Twelve  hundred!  .  .  .  Cease  firing!" 

The  detachments  piled  up  in  front  of  the 
trenches  the  ejected  cartridge-cases  which 
strewed  the  field.  Bullets  still  continued  to 
hum  over  our  heads,  but  the  77  mm.  shells  were 
now  falling  wide  of  the  mark.  We  remained 
motionless  at  the  bottom  of  our  trenches.  Every 
few  minutes  Hutin  asked  me: 

"What  time  is  it?" 

When  I  told  him  he  became  impa- 
tient : 

"Confound  it!"  said  he,  "we  don't  seem  to 
be  getting  on !" 

In  the  afternoon,  on  an  order  from  the  divi- 
sion, the  Major  commanded  the  limbers  to  be 
brought  up. 

The  drivers  arrived  on  horseback,  at  a  trot. 

"Dismount!"  shouted  the  Captain. 

They  did  not  hear.  Bullets,  skimming  over 
the  crest,  still  whistled  by.  They  would  inev- 
itably be  killed. 

"Now,  then,  altogether,"  said  the  senior 
Petty  Officer  .  .  .  "One  .  .  .  two  .  .  , 
three.  .  .  .  Dismount!  .  .  ." 

Twenty  voices  were  raised  in  a  single  shout. 
This  time  they  heard,  and,  without  stopping 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    305 

the  limbers,  the  drivers  hurriedly  tumbled  off 
their  horses. 

We  took  up  a  fresh  position  still  nearer  the 
enemy  between  two  lines  of  poplars  in  a 
meadow  overgrown  with  tall  grass.  Almost  im- 
mediately the  77  mm.  guns,  which  since  the 
morning  had  been  searching  for  us  without  suc- 
cess, began  to  threaten  our  battery.  The  enemy 
could  not  have  seen  our  movements,  and  no- 
aeroplane  was  visible  aloft.  Had  our  position 
been  signalled  by  a  spy? 

A  foot-soldier  passed,  holding  his  abdomen 
with  both  hands  and  shifting  from  one  foot  to 
the  other  in  the  throes  of  intense  suffering. 

"Is  there  an  ambulance  over  there?" 

"Have  you  had  a  bullet  in  the  stomach?" 

"No,  here  .  .  .  between  the  legs.  It  burnsr 
it  burns  frightfully!" 

"Listen,"  said  Millon,  "make  for  our  lim- 
bers— over  there  on  the  left,  behind  the  trees. 
They've  nothing  to  do,  and  will  perhaps  be  able 
to  help  you." 

"Thanks!    I'll  go  to  them." 

"But  take  care  between  the  trees  in  the 
meadow.  The  shells  are  falling  thick  there !" 

The  unfortunate  soldier  moved  off  slowly, 
writhing  with  pain. 

The  Captain  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the: 


306  MY  *75 

first  poplar  of  one  of  the  two  lines,  intent  upon 
making  observations.  Men  ready  to  transmit 
orders  by  word  of  mouth  lay  at  regular  inter- 
vals on  the  exposed  ground  between  the  battery 
and  the  observation-post. 

The  77  mm.  shells  were  now  bursting  directly 
overhead.  We  took  cover.  Every  few  sec- 
onds the  enemy's  shrapnels  sowed  the  position 
with  bullets,  the  lead  twanging  on  the  steel 
armour  of  the  ammunition  wagon.  Nobody 
moved,  and  no  one  was  wounded. 

Then  I  saw  Hutin,  who,  sitting  on  the  layer's 
seat,  was  sheltering  behind  the  gun-shield,  sud- 
denly jump  to  his  feet : 

"Good  God!"  he  ejaculated,  "the  Captain!" 

"Hit?"  we  asked  anxiously. 

"It  burst  just  over  the  tree  he  was  leaning 
up  against!" 

In  spite  of  the  danger  the  whole  detachment 
at  once  stood  up  like  one  man. 

"Can  you  see  him,  Hutin?" 

"No.  .  .  ." 

Lieutenant  Homolle,  the  Major's  little  Aide- 
de-Camp,  who  quietly  came  up,  unprotected, 
from  the  observation-post,  shouted  to  us  from 
a  distance: 

"Will  you  take  cover,  you  idiots  1" 

"The  Captain?" 

"He's  not  hurt." 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    307 

And,  when  he  had  reached  us  and  taken 
shelter  behind  the  ammunition  wagon,  he 
added: 

"I've  got  two  in  the  thigh.  .  .  .  That's  noth- 
ing— they  didn't  go  in  ...  a  couple  of  bruises, 
that's  all.  The  shell's  got  to  burst  pretty  close 
to  do  any  damage.  The  most  annoying  thing 
about  it  is  that  the  Captain  can't  see  the  Ger- 
mans. We  can't  fire !" 

The  enemy's  fire  redoubled  in  violence,  and 
shrapnel  bullets  riddled  the  poplars,  making 
a  noise  like  falling  hail.  Shorn-off  leaves, 
carried  by  the  wind,  were  scattered  round  the 
guns. 

One  of  the  liaison  officers — one  of  the 
hurleurs*  as  they  are  called — wounded  in 
the  side,  hurriedly  left  the  position.  Astruc, 
wounded  in  the  chest  and  vomiting  blood, 
also  left  the  field,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  com- 
rade. 

We  again  became  motionless  under  the  shell- 
fire. 

Since  a  moment  or  two  I  had  felt  an  unac- 
customed itching  in  my  beard.  Had  I  caught 
trench  pest?  Hutin  lent  me  his  looking-glass, 
but,  while  I  was  carefully  combing  myself,  I 
felt  a  sudden  burning  sensation  in  my  right 
hand,  in  which  I  was  holding  the  glass  and 

*  Shouters. 


308  MY  -75 

which  I  had  stretched  beyond  the  protective 
bulk  of  the  ammunition  wagon.  At  the  same 
time  something  hit  me  in  the  chest.  Feverishly, 
with  my  left  hand,  I  fingered  the  cloth  of  my 
uniform  and  found  a  rent  in  it  breast-high.  I 
felt  myself  suddenly  grow  weak.  I  tore  open 
my  tunic  and  shirt  .  .  .  nothing  ...  I  could  see 
nothing.  My  skin  was  unscratched. 

My  pocket-book,  letters,  and  letter-case, 
which  I  carry  in  the  pocket  of  my  shirt,  had 
stopped  the  bullet.  The  blood  was  spurting 
from  my  wounded  hand.  That  was  nothing. 
Instinctively  I  had  pocketed  the  looking-glass. 
I  do  not  know  how  it  had  remained  between 
my  fingers,  for  my  thumb  was  now  no  more 
than  a  pendant  piece  of  tattered  flesh. 

"You'll  have  to  clear  off,"  said  Lieutenant 
Hely  d'Oissel,  who  was  crouching  down  next  to 
me. 

Hutin  stood  up : 

"Lintier!"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  vibrating  with 
horror  which  went  straight  to  my  heart. 

"It's  nothing,  old  chap  .  .  .  only  my 
hand." 

"I'll  dress  it  for  you!" 

But  shells  were  falling  incessantly  and  I  re- 
fused to  let  him  get  from  under  cover. 

"Run  off  quick!"  said  the  Lieutenant. 

I    ran    off    across    the   meadow,    crouching 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    309 

down  as  much  as  possible  under  the  menace 
of  the  shrapnel  bullets.  Blood  was  dripping 
on  to  my  leggings  and  thighs,  and  sticking  the 
cloth  of  my  breeches  to  my  knees.  From  my 
hand  the  bullet  had  projected  a  red,  star- 
shaped  piece  of  flesh  and  tendons  on  to  my 
chest. 

Suddenly  came  the  whistling  of  approaching 
shells. 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  the  poplars  two  horses 
had  just  been  killed.  I  threw  myself  down 
between  them  in  the  long,  blood-stained  grass. 
The  shells  burst.  With  a  dull  sound  a  large 
splinter  ripped  up  one  of  the  inert  bodies 
protecting  me. 

I  immediately  set  off  again,  rapidly  getting 
out  of  the  77  mm.  Howitzer  line  of  fire.  My 
wounded  hand  was  covered  with  earth  and 
horse's  blood.  As  I  crossed  a  road  or  embank- 
ment, I  suddenly  found  myself  faced  by  the 
threatening  muzzles  of  twenty  French  field- 
guns  lined  up  on  the  field.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  retrace  my  steps. 

Behind  the  motionless  artillery  some  Moroc- 
can Tirailleurs  were  lying  among  the  beets.  I 
nearly  trod  on  them  before  I  discovered  their 
presence. 

A  Captain  stood  up  and  beckoned  to  me : 

"Come  here,  gunner,  and  I'll  bandage  you. 


310  MY  -75 

Got  your  first-aid  dressing?  ...  In  the  inside 
pocket  of  your  tunic?  .  .  .  Hallo,  it's  all  torn ! 
Been  wounded  in  the  chest?*  No?  .  .  .  Well, 
you're  lucky!  ..." 

He  examined  my  hand. 

"H'm  .  .  .  nasty!  ...  lot  of  earth  and 
gun-grease  got  into  it.  ...  We  must  clean  that 
off  and  disinfect  the  wound  as  soon  as  possible. 
.  .  .  I'll  take  off  the  worst  with  some  cotton- 
wool." 

I  was  out  of  breath  with  running,  and  the 
blood  was  throbbing  in  my  temples  and  buzzing 
in  my  ears.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation 
suddenly  deserted  me,  and,  as  I  stood  motion- 
less, I  began  to  feel  faint.  My  legs  shook  and 
gave  way  as  though  broken  at  the  knees.  The 
figure  of  the  officer  standing  by  me  seemed  to 
turn  round  and  round. 

"Hallo!     Steady!"  he  cried. 

He  forced  the  neck  of  a  flask  between  my 
lips  and  poured  a  draught  of  rum  down  my 
throat.  I  immediately  felt  strengthened  from 
head  to  foot  and  laughed  as  I  thanked  him. 

"That's  all  right!"  said  he  as  he  finished 
dressing  my  hand. 

The  field-hospitals  of  the  division  were  at 
Fresnieres,  and  I  started  off  in  that  direction. 
My  hand  felt  as  though  it  had  turned  to  lead, 
and,  as  I  walked  across  country  holding 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    311 

myself  stiffly  erect  with  a  view  to  resisting 
another  fainting  fit,  buoyed  up  by  the  thought 
that  I  should  soon  be  under  cover,  far  from  the 
shells  and  the  battle,  an  unwonted  lassitude,  a 
yearning  for  sleep  and  silence,  a  weakening  of 
will-power  suddenly  took  possession  of  me 
and  seemed  to  penetrate  to  the  very  marrow 
of  my  bones.  It  seemed  to  me  that  when  I 
got  to  the  hospital  I  should  sleep  for  days  on 
end. 

To  sleep — to  sleep — and,  above  all,  no  longer 
hear  the  guns,  no  longer  hear  anything.  To 
live  without  thinking,  and  in  absolute  silence; 
to  live  after  so  many  times  having  narrowly  es- 
caped death.  Suddenly  I  remembered  what  the 
Captain  of  Tirailleurs  had  said — that  my 
wound  was  dirty,  infected  with  earth  and  horse's 
blood.  The  fear  of  gangrene,  of  lock-jaw,  and 
of  all  other  forms  of  hospital  putrefaction 
gripped  me  by  the  throat. 

At  Fresnieres  an  enormous  shell  had  just 
killed,  in  front  of  the  door  of  the  hospital,  a 
medical  officer,  a  nun,  and  four  wounded  men. 
The  bodies  were  laid  out  side  by  side  on  the 
pavement,  but  the  corpse  of  a  Tirailleur,  a 
great,  dark-skinned  giant  whose  arms,  stretched 
out,  spanned  an  extraordinary  space,  still  lay 
in  the  cut-up  roadway.  The  air  was  full  of 
the  distant  whistling  of  shells.  In  the  face 


312  MY  -75 

of  this  menace  which  remained  hanging  over 
my  head,  now  that  I  could  no  longer  fight,  I 
was  seized  with  an  instinctive  and  puerile  feel- 
ing of  revolt.  I  was  no  longer  fair  game. 

In  the  yard  outside  the  hospital,  among  the 
stretchers  bearing  wounded,  blood-stained  men, 
some  hospital  orderlies  were  laying  the  more 
severe  cases  on  a  large  table  covered  with  a 
flowery-patterned  oil-cloth.  Two  medical  offi- 
cers were  hurriedly  dressing  them. 

One,  a  big,  brown-haired  man  with  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles,  beckoned  to  me.  I  went  up 
to  him. 

"Well,  what's  wrong  with  you?" 

"Shrapnel  .  .  ." 

"Let's  have  a  look!" 

He  unwound  the  bandage,  and,  as  soon  as  he 
took  off  the  compress,  the  blood  began  to  spurt 
like  a  fountain.  He  looked  at  the  wound  and 
made  a  grimace. 

"H'm  ...  it  bleeds  badly.  .  .  ." 

He  called  one  of  his  subordinates,  a  bearded 
officer,  who  hurried  up. 

"Look  .  .  .  we'd  better  take  the  thumb  right 
off,  hadn't  we?" 

"I  should  think  so!  .  .  ."  said  the  other. 

"Right.  We'll  cut  that  off  for  you  at  once," 
said  the  officer  with  the  gold-rimmed  glasses. 

I  protested: 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    313 

''Cutoff  my  thumb!" 

"Yes,  unless  you  want  to  keep  it  on  like  that. 
Here,  wait  a  moment.  .  .  ." 

A  Colonial  infantryman  had  just  been 
brought  in,  the  blood  gushing  from  a  large 
wound  in  his  shoulder.  The  medical  officer 
knelt  down  beside  him  and  feverishly  felt  about 
with  his  fingers  among  the  torn  shreds  of  flesh, 
trying  to  pinch  the  artery. 

"Cut  off  my  thumb!  .  .  ."  echoed  in  my 
ears. 

I  quickly  made  up  my  mind.  Seizing  a 
compress  and  a  strip  of  rolled  lint  from  the 
table  I  managed  with  the  aid  of  my  left  hand 
and  teeth  to  bandage  my  wound  in  a  rough-and- 
ready  fashion,  and  without  being  observed  by 
the  officers,  who  were  intent  upon  the  severed 
artery,  I  slipped  out  of  the  hospital. 

I  knew  that  I  should  find  the  other  divisional 
hospitals  at  Canny-sur-Matz,  about  a  mile  and 
a  half  from  Fresnieres. 

I  came  upon  a  cafe  still  open  in  spite  of  the 
shells,  and  bought  a  flask  of  brandy.  I  placed 
my  revolver  holster  on  my  left  side,  within 
reach  of  my  sound  hand,  for  night  was  coming 
on,  and  often,  under  cover  of  the  darkness, 
patrols  of  German  cavalry  managed  to  slip  be- 
tween the  network  of  French  outposts  and 
supports. 


314  MY  -75 

The  Canny  road  made  a  wide  detour,  so  I 
decided  to  strike  across  country.  The  steeple 
of  the  village  church,  standing  out  sharply 
against  the  crimson  sky,  would  serve  as  a 
guide. 

My  hand  continued  to  bleed.  I  kept  up 
my  strength  with  frequent  pulls  at  my  brandy- 
flask  and  felt  confident  that  I  should  be  able 
to  reach  the  next  hospital. 

On  a  sloping  field,  near  a  square-shaped  hay- 
rick, some  infantry  lay  stretched  out,  their 
red  breeches  making  bright  patches  in  the 
shadowy  grass.  A  passing  puff  of  wind  bore 
with  it  a  disquieting  smell.  The  arm  of  one 
of  the  prostrate  soldiers  on  the  top  of  the 
knoll  stretched  straight  up  in  the  air,  motion- 
less against  the  clearness  of  the  western  sky- 
line. 

Dead  men! 

I  was  about  to  go  on  my  way,  when  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hayrick  I  saw  a  human  figure 
crouching  over  one  of  the  bodies.  The  man 
had  not  seen  me.  .  .  .  He  turned  the  corpse 
over  and  began  to  search  it.  I  at  once 
cocked  my  revolver,  and  carefully,  without 
trembling,  aimed  at  the  looter.  I  was  about 
to  pull  the  trigger  when  a  sudden  fear  stopped 
me.  I  could  see  his  movements  quite  clearly, 
but  his  face,  turned  sideways  against  the  dark 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  315 
background  of  the  hayrick,  was  not  discernible. 
The  thought  that  he  might  be  a  gendarme 
identifying  the  dead  made  me  lower  my 
weapon. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  I  shouted. 

The  man  jumped  as  though  stung  by  a  whip- 
lash, and  stood  up,  his  features  sharply  defined 
against  the  clear  sky.  I  saw  that  he  was  wear- 
ing a  flat  cap  with  a  broad  peak. 

"Mind  your  own  business  and  I'll  mind 
mine!"  he  retorted.  With  that  he  made  off, 
run-ning  in  zigzags  under  the  menace  of  my  re- 
volver, like  an  animal  trying  to  cover  its 
tracks. 

I  fired  ...  he  stopped  a  moment.  Had  I 
hit  him?  A  streak  of  light  flashed  out  from 
his  shadow,  and  a  bullet  hummed  past  my  ear. 
Off  he  went  again  but,  just  as  he  was  about  to 
disappear  behind  a  bush,  I  fired  a  second  time. 
I  thought  I  saw  him  fall  among  the  brambles. 

I  arrived  at  Canny,  where  a  red  lantern 
shining  through  the  darkness  marked  the 
entrance  to  the  hospital.  Wounded  were 
stretched  out  in  the  porch,  and  the  yard  was 
full  of  them.  The  medical  officers  were  hard 
at  work  in  a  veranda  adjoining  the  main 
building.  Through  the  multicoloured  glass 
windows  a  diffused  light  filtered  slowly, 


316  MY  -75 

vaguely  illuminating  the  men  stretched  on  the 
straw.  Now  and  again,  when  the  door  of  the 
veranda  opened,  a  rectangle  of  crude  light 
spread  along  the  ground,  showing  up  a  line  of 
stretchers  and  the  suffering  faces  of  the 
severely  wounded  who  were  waiting  for  first 
aid.  Two  orderlies  carried  off  the  first 
stretcher  of  the  row.  The  door  swung  to  be- 
hind them  and  the  yard  was  again  plunged  in 
a  flickering  half-light. 

I  stood  there,  very  tired,  looking  stupidly  at 
the  scene.  My  hand  was  still  bleeding,  but  only 
drop  by  drop  now. 

I  asked  a  passing  orderly: 

"Do  you  know  when  they'll  be  able  to  dress 
my  wound?" 

"To-night.    Lie  down  in  the  straw." 

I  lay  down  where  I  was.  Suddenly  I  heard 
a  voice,  at  once  infantile  and  yet  grave,  in 
my  ear: 

"You  wounded?"  it  said,  with  a  strange 
accent. 

I  turned  and  found  a  tall  negro  lying  by 
my  side.  I  could  see  nothing  of  him  but  two 
shining  eyes. 

"Yes,  I'm  wounded,  Sidi.     You,  too?" 

"Yes,  me  wounded." 

He  appeared  to  reflect  for  a  moment: 

"Blacks  .  .  .  wounded,  wounded,  wounded 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE  317 
...  and  then  killed  .  .  .  killed  .  .  .  killed 
.  .  .  Boches  .  .  .oh!  many,  many  Boches 
.  .  .  William!" 

"Ah!  so  you've  heard  of  William?" 

"William  .  .  .  bad  chief  ...  lot  of  women 
.  .  .  many  women!  .  .  .  ah!  .  .  ." 

He  paused  an  instant  and  then  con- 
tinued: 

"He  many  women  .  .  .  big,  bad  chief 
.  .  .  like  way  back  there  .  .  .  back  there 
.  .  .  killed  the  women  .  .  .  cut  .  .  .  cut. 
.  .  .  Whish!  .  .  .  like  that!  .  .  ." 

"Why?" 

"Bad  ...  ah!  ...  he  got  big  house  .  .  . 
put  women's  heads  on  top  .  ...  on  roof.  .  .  . 
Ah,  bad.  ..." 

He  searched  for  words: 

"Yes,  put  heads  of  women — many  women — 
on  roof  of  house  .  .  .  bad,  very  bad.  .  .  ." 

I  was  in  too  much  pain  to  sleep,  and  had 
perforce  to  listen  to  his  childish  babble. 

"So  .  .  .  down  there  .  .  .  bad  chief  stick 
women's  heads  on  roof  .  .  .  not  good,  no  I 
.  .  .  down  there !  .  .  ." 

And  then  the  Senegalese  began  to  speak  in 
his  own  language,  a  lisping,  sweet-sounding 
tongue.  Perhaps  he  was  delirious. 

I  felt  cold,  but  nevertheless,  after  a  time, 
found  my  eyelids  growing  heavy.  Covering 


MY  -75 

my  legs  with  straw  as  best  I  could  I  stretched 
myself  out  and  went  to  sleep. 

It  was  still  night  when  I  awoke,  and  a  thin 
rain,  or  rather  drizzle,  was  falling.  I  was 
colder  than  ever,  and  my  wound  pained  me 
severely.  The  veranda  was  still  lit  up.  I 
could  see  the  shadowy  form  of  the  negro  lying 
next  to  me,  but  could  no  longer  hear  his 
breathing.  I  stretched  out  my  hand  and 
felt  his.  It  was  icy  cold.  The  straw 
under  me  seemed  wet.  I  looked,  and  dis- 
covered that  my  feet  were  lying  in  a  pool  of 
blood. 

I  stood  up.  The  severely  wounded  had  now 
been  dressed.  A  fire  had  been  lit  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  farmhouse,  and  a  pale-faced 
Algerian  was  dozing  in  front  of  it.  On  the 
mantelpiece  an  alarum  clock,  standing  be- 
tween two  brass  candlesticks,  marked  two 
o'clock. 

I  had  my  wound  dressed.  It  appeared 
that  after  all  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  am- 
putate my  thumb.  A  Petty  Officer  took  down 
my  name,  and  on  the  cloth  band  which  held  my 
arm  in  a  sling  pinned  a  hospital  ticket:  "Severe 
shrapnel  wound  in  left  hand.  To  be  invalided 
back,  sitting." 


THE  MARNE  TO  THE  AISNE    319 

Wednesday,  September  23 
I  had  to  walk  five  miles  along  the  main  road, 
upon  which  the  crowd  of  men  wounded  in  the 
head,  arms  and  shoulders  gradually  became 
less  dense.  Finally,  I  reached  Ressons  ...  the 
station,  the  train.  .  .  .  Then  the  interminable 
jolting  of  the  cattle-truck  half  full  of  mouldy 
loaves  of  bread  .  .  .  fever,  thirst.  At  last  the 
hospital  .  .  .  bed  .  .  .  women's  hands,  the 
bandage  stiff  with  black  blood  taken  off  ... 
silence  ...  ah,  silence!  .  .  . 


On  the  3Oth  September  the  morning  post 
brought  me  at  the  hospital  a  letter  from  my 
friend  Hutin,  which  I  copy  here  in  all  its  sim- 
plicity: 

"September  25,  1914 

"My  DEAR  LINTIER, — Do  write  as  soon  as 
you  can  and  let  us  know  how  you  are.  I  hope 
you'll  soon  be  all  right  again,  and  all  the  other 
fellows  in  the  detachment  join  with  me  in  wish- 
ing you  rapid  and  complete  recovery. 

"You  probably  do  not  know  of  the  mis- 
fortune which  befell  the  battery  only  a  few 
minutes  after  you  left.  The  Captain  was 
killed — a  shrapnel  bullet  just  under  the  left 
eye.  You  remember  how  we  all  said:  'If 


320  MY  -75 

anything  happens  to  him  he  can  count  on  all 
of  us?'  Well,  when  we  saw  him  fall  the  whole 
lot  of  us  ran  out  to  help  him.  But  it  wasn't 
any  use.  It  was  all  over.  We  carried  the 
body  back  to  the  battery.  Lieutenant  Hely 
d'Oissel  took  over  the  command  and  we  went 
on  firing.  He  wept  as  he  gave  the  ranges. 
When,  about  eight  o'clock,  we  got  orders  to 
leave  the  position,  and  had  propped  Captain 
de  Brisoult  upon  one  of  the  limber  seats  of 
the  first  gun,  half  the  battery  had  tears  in 
their  eyes.  Two  gunners  sat  one  on  each  side 
of  him.  They  had  covered  his  face  with  a 
white  handkerchief.  At  Fresnieres  we  watched 
over  him  all  the  night.  He  was  buried  there. 
"Since  then  we  haven't  done  much.  Besides, 
we've  been  a  bit  unsettled  by  this  loss.  I  can't 
tell  you  where  we  are,  but  if  I  tell  you  that 
the  battery  has  hardly  changed  place  since  you 
left,  you  will  know  more  or  less  where  our  po- 
sitions are. 

"Always  yours, 

"GEORGES  HUTIN." 

I,  too,  wept  as  I  read  those  lines. 

THE   END 


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